The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride

Chapter Three

Shocked, and embarrassed, Jon moved in his seat to stare directly at the injured woman. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he began, the words tumbling out in his haste to apologise. ‘I had completely forgotten the incident until Mrs Aubrey mentioned it just now, because you look so-’ He stopped just in time and cleared his throat.

Yesterday, he had assumed Miss Aubrey was a true lady, even if only a poor relation. But she was not an Aubrey at all. The bedraggled woman he had rescued could be anything, even a woman from the gutter! He recalled thinking at the time that she might be a lady, but still…

She was really very attractive, now he took the time to look at her. He let his gaze travel slowly from her curly red-brown hair and perfect complexion down the slim curves of her body, finally coming to rest on her bandaged ankle. ‘Forgive me, but you look considerably more like a lady than you did then.’ It was no more than the truth. But it was too stark. He had spoken without sufficient thought. Again! What on earth was the matter with him? Coupled with his brazen scrutiny, his words were almost an insult. She had turned bright scarlet.

Recollecting his manners at last, and the wisdom of silence, he busied himself with his teacup while he tried to gather his wits.

After a long pause, he turned to Mrs Aubrey and said, in a polite but neutral voice, ‘So our foundling has been here with you all this time? And with the name Aubrey? You did not discover her true identity?’

‘We did everything possible, including advertising-discreetly-in the newspapers for a missing woman by the name of Elizabeth. But none of it produced any information at all. It is as though poor Beth had emerged out of nothing, like a phantom.’

Jon turned back to ‘poor Beth’. Her heightened colour had drained away completely. ‘I am heartily sorry that nothing could be done, ma’am. And you have had no memory at all, not the least flash of anything, in all these months?’

‘No, my lord. Nothing.’ Her response was very swift, and very definite.

Jon could not help wondering whether he should believe her. He had heard of cases where unscrupulous people had preyed on their benefactors by pretending to have lost their memory. Might that have happened here? Was Beth Aubrey a fraud? Perhaps that was why she had turned so pale? The Aubreys were a generous couple who would never look for such duplicity. ‘It is very strange, I must say. Has Dr Willoughby nothing to suggest on the matter? You have consulted him, I assume?’

‘If we had consulted him about Beth’s memory loss, it would have become common knowledge. Besides, what does a country doctor know of such things? So we-the rector and I-we allowed ourselves a little white lie. We gave out that Beth was a distant relation who had come to stay with us for a while, having no remaining close family of her own.’

‘I see. Then no one hereabouts knows how Miss Aubrey was discovered?’

‘Some of the gentry families suspect that Beth is not quite what she seems. I am sorry to say that some of them forget their Christian duty, and treat her like a servant, rather than a lady born and bred.’ Mrs Aubrey shook her head sorrowfully. ‘It is not what we would have expected of them.’

‘Nor I, ma’am. When I stayed here as a child, I was always struck by the kindness and generosity of all the great families of the district.’

‘That might have had something to do with the fact that you were heir to an earldom, sir.’ Miss Aubrey sounded waspish. Not surprising, perhaps, especially if her plight was genuine.

Jon looked assessingly at her and was struck by the direct way she met and held his gaze. She certainly had the air of a true lady. ‘As it happens, ma’am, I was not the heir then. That was my elder brother. But I do agree that my being the son of an earl might have coloured their judgement a little. And I am disappointed to learn that you have not always been accorded the respect due to a lady. The rector’s sponsorship should be enough for anyone, however high their status.’

Yet again, he regretted his words the moment they were spoken. After all, the rector’s word had not been enough for him. Guilt pricked Jon’s conscience. He was responsible for this. He was the one who had rescued Beth; and the one who had foisted her on the Aubreys, even though he had not expected her to remain with them for long. If she was genuine, it was now Jon’s duty to ensure she was restored to her rightful place, however lowly that might be. And if she was a fraud, it was his duty to expose her. She was not to be a welcome diversion after all. She was just one more irksome duty to be discharged.

Mrs Aubrey laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘If you were seen to accept Beth, the other families would follow your lead, I am sure. As Earl of Portbury, you outrank them all.’

That was true, but was he prepared to do what she asked? Was it not his duty to satisfy himself, first of all, that Beth Aubrey was worthy of his support? He was still trying to decide how to reply when the sitting room door opened.

‘Lady Fitzherbert has called, ma’am, and asks if-’

The little maid was not allowed to finish. Lady Fitzherbert, resplendent in rustling purple silk and feather-trimmed bonnet, pushed the girl aside and marched into the room. She paused barely long enough to drop a disdainful curtsy to Mrs Aubrey before launching into an angry complaint. ‘I have come to consult the rector on a matter of urgent business, but your servant here tells me that he is not at home to callers. I must protest, ma’am. Why, I am-’

Jon had risen at the same time as Mrs Aubrey but did nothing else to draw attention to himself. He waited to see what would happen next.

‘There has been some misunderstanding, I fear,’ Mrs Aubrey said simply. ‘The rector cannot see you because he is not at home. However, I expect him to return within the hour. Perhaps you would like to-?’

‘Why, Lord Portbury! How delightful to see you safely returned!’ Lady Fitzherbert abruptly turned aside from her hostess and sank into a very elegant curtsy.

Jon prepared himself for the worst kind of toadeating. Sir Bertram Fitzherbert and his detestable wife were relative newcomers to the district, but held themselves to be above everyone but the nobility. The Fitzherberts were bound to be among those who had slighted Beth Aubrey, for she was a nobody, with no social standing at all in their eyes.

In that instant, Jon decided their behaviour was an insult to him, as well as to the lady herself. Miss Aubrey was his foundling, after all. The rector’s word should be good enough for such upstarts as the Fitzherberts. This harpy needed to be taken down a peg or two.

‘Sir Bertram will be so pleased to learn that you are back in residence at the Manor,’ Lady Fitzherbert gushed. ‘There is so little truly genteel society hereabouts.’

‘Country society can be a little restricted, to be sure,’ Jon said, as soon as she paused to draw breath. ‘But you have several families within easy driving distance. And during my absence from Fratcombe, you have had the rector and Mrs Aubrey. And Miss Aubrey, also.’ He stepped aside so that Lady Fitzherbert would see Beth lying on the sofa behind him. ‘You are already acquainted, I collect?’

‘I…er…’ Lady Fitzherbert’s nostrils flared and her lips clamped together. For several seconds, she stared down her long nose at Beth Aubrey. Then she half-turned back to Mrs Aubrey and drew herself up very straight. ‘Excuse me, I may not stay longer. Pray tell the rector, when he returns, that Sir Bertram is evicting that band of dirty gypsies who are trespassing on our land. Sir Bertram wished it to be understood that they should not be given shelter in the district. Not by anyone.’

Mrs Aubrey’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but her voice was soft. ‘I am surprised that your husband did not come himself to deliver so important an instruction.’

Lady Fitzherbert tittered. ‘Oh, Sir Bertram would never think to instruct the rector. Certainly not. Just…just a word to the wise.’

Jon had heard quite enough. ‘I am sure the rector will be properly grateful, ma’am. But as it happens, Sir Bertram’s warning is a little late. The gypsy band has leave to camp on my land at Fratcombe Manor.’

Lady Fitzherbert gasped and turned bright red. Then she swallowed hard. ‘Since the rector is not here, I shall not trouble you further, ma’am. Lord Portbury.’ She dipped another elegant curtsy to Jon, inclined her head a fraction to Mrs Aubrey and hurried out, without waiting for a servant to be summoned.

‘Well, I declare!’ Mrs Aubrey let out a long breath. Then she frowned up at Jon. ‘Since when has Fratcombe Manor offered hospitality to gypsies?’

‘It has never yet done so. I-’

‘My lord, I pray you will not allow Sir Bertram Fitzherbert to run them out of Fratcombe. He will not care what damage is done to their caravans and their horses. And there are so many helpless children-’

Jon stopped Miss Aubrey with a raised hand. His foundling was bringing him yet another problem. Now, she was prepared to plead for people who were truly outcasts from society. ‘I have said they may use my land. For a week or two, at least. I will not go back on that.’

Nor would he, unless they broke his trust. He would instruct his workers to keep a sharp eye out for thieving or damage. At the first sign of either, the gypsies would be turned off. He was cynical enough to expect it within days.

‘Thank you, my lord. I will impress on them that there must be no mischief.’

‘You? You have dealings with the gypsies?’

She coloured a little but raised her chin defiantly. ‘I am the Fratcombe schoolmistress. I teach all the children in the district. Whoever they are.’

‘Master Jonathan, Beth goes to the gypsy camp when she can and gives lessons to the children. Just simple lettering and stories from the Bible. Even gypsies are God’s creatures.’

‘Yes,’ Jon admitted grudgingly. The rector had often preached about the Good Samaritan. Now was Jon’s chance to show that he had listened. ‘Yes, you are right, ma’am. As long as they respect the law, they will not suffer at my hands. I do not persecute waifs and strays.’

Mrs Aubrey smiled at Jon and then very warmly across at Beth. ‘No, you do not. Indeed, you rescue them. You brought us the daughter we never had.’

It was worse than he had imagined. If Beth Aubrey was a fraud, he could not expose her without hurting Mrs Aubrey. He knew he could never do that. The old lady had been like a mother to Jon when he and his brother had been at Fratcombe as boys. She had comforted Jon when his brother died. Her support had helped him to face the grief-stricken father who thought Jon a worthless replacement for his dead heir. How much had she understood of a young boy’s desperate striving to win his father’s esteem? It had never been spoken of. But she and the rector understood human failings. They would have seen how hard Jon tried, and how little he succeeded.

According to Jon’s father, an earl’s heir had to be brought up to understand his duty from the cradle, or he would never be more than a poor second best. Not that it stopped the old man from trying to thrash Jon into the mould he sought-duty, and distance, and distrust of everyone. He had almost succeeded, but he could never undermine Jon’s trust in the Aubreys. They were truly good people, probably the only ones Jon knew. And if they loved Beth…

He turned back to the sofa. ‘Has Lady Fitzherbert ever acknowledged you, ma’am?’ he asked sharply.

She coloured and looked down at her clasped hands, shaking her head.

So that insufferable woman really was trying to usurp Jon’s place in society. A set-down over the gypsies was not enough. There must be public retribution. It would be fitting to make Beth Aubrey his instrument.

‘I have a mind to hold a splendid party at the Manor, to which I shall invite all the gentry families. If you, Mrs Aubrey, would do me the honour of acting as my hostess, with your adopted daughter by your side, we shall teach all our stiff-rumped neighbours to treat Miss Aubrey with proper respect.’

‘Oh, but you cannot,’ Beth breathed.

‘I can. And I will, if Mrs Aubrey agrees. Do you approve, ma’am?’

Mrs Aubrey twinkled at him. ‘I do, Master Jonathan. It will succeed, I am sure, for there is not one great house that would turn down an invitation from the Earl of Portbury. Even if the price is to acknowledge Miss Elizabeth Aubrey.’

He took the old lady’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘We have a bargain, then.’

The conspiracy was sealed between her benefactress and her rescuer. Beth had had no say at all. It seemed she was still to be treated like a parcel. ‘I may develop a most inconvenient headache on the day of this party, my lord,’ she said tightly.

‘I pray you will do no such thing, ma’am.’ He rose to fetch a hard chair from the wall by the door, and set it down by the head of the sofa where Beth lay. Sitting down, he took her left hand in both of his. His clasp was gentle and reassuring. She felt calluses on his palm from riding and fencing. This was no sprig of fashion but a man of action. ‘Perhaps you could think of it, not as revenge on petty coxcombs, but as a favour for Mr and Mrs Aubrey? They have sheltered you, and accepted you as if you were a member of their own family. It is an insult to them that some of the local gentry have cut you. By agreeing to this, by attending my party and showing your strength of character, you will be repaying something of what you owe the Aubreys. Can you not see that?’

Beth could now see precious little. Her vision was blurry, as if she were trying to see through a howling gale. The touch of his skin on hers was flooding her whole body with heat, making her heart swell and race. She was terrified by his proposal, yet at the same time she felt light-headed, as if she might float away. When she tried to speak, no words came out.

‘Miss Beth? Will you not agree? For Mrs Aubrey’s sake?’

She had no choice. ‘I will do what you ask,’ she said, in a rather strangled whisper.

‘Thank you, Beth.’ He raised her hand and kissed it, just as he had kissed Mrs Aubrey’s.

But Mrs Aubrey could not have felt the surge of heat that travelled through Beth’s fingers and up her arm. It was not quite pleasure, and not quite pain, but she almost cried out in shock. She sat quite motionless, trying to recover her wits. He had kissed her hand! And he had called her by her given name! She must be back in one of her unfathomable dreams.

Jonathan, it seemed, had noticed nothing. After a second, he laid her hand back in her lap, replaced the hard chair by the door and resumed his seat by Mrs Aubrey. ‘Excellent. I must look to you to oversee the arrangements, ma’am, for I am promised to King’s Portbury for the next few weeks. But before I leave Fratcombe, you and I shall put our heads together and decide precisely who is to be invited. Oh, I am going to enjoy this!’

Mrs Aubrey was beginning to look a little prim. ‘They shall be punished for their lack of Christian charity, Master Jonathan, but do not forget your own, in the process. Forgiveness is a virtue, you know. You must not enjoy yourself too much. That could be a sin.’

He nodded. ‘I will try to suppress my baser instincts. And with you as my partner in this enterprise, ma’am, I am sure that generosity and forgiveness will prevail.’ Laughter burst out of him like ginger beer from a shaken bottle. ‘They will prevail, I promise you. Eventually.’

‘What will?’ The door had opened without a sound. The rector stood there, looking puzzled. ‘Do I take it that you and my lady wife have been conspiring together, Jonathan?’

Jonathan leapt to his feet to bow politely. ‘Your wife has most generously agreed to act as hostess for an evening party I plan to give at the Manor next month, sir. I hope you do not object?’

The rector’s cheery countenance suddenly became bleak. ‘Of course not. I appreciate that entertaining must be quite awkward for you now. I…we heard about the death of your wife, Jonathan, and we were very sorry. It must have been hard on you, hearing such sad news when you were so far away. Please accept our very sincere condolences.’

Jonathan’s face had turned ashen. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Beth could barely recognise him. The mention of his dead wife had turned him grey and gaunt. It was as though he had aged on the spot, by at least ten years. He must have loved his late wife a great deal if his grief could do that. The fact that he had been in Spain, and unable to leave his post, would have cut him to the quick. No doubt, his countess was long buried by the time the news finally reached him. Poor, poor man.

‘Your wife died of a fever, I collect?’ As he always did, the rector was being kind to the bereaved, giving them an opportunity to talk about the person they had loved and lost.

Jonathan drew himself up very straight and tall. He seemed to have sucked in his cheeks. His nostrils were pinched. ‘I am grateful for your sympathy, sir. If you will forgive me, I prefer not to discuss my late wife’s passing. It is well over a year ago now, you understand.’

The rector coloured. ‘Yes, of course, my boy. Of course.’

The easy companionship in the little parlour had evaporated. Jonathan bowed to Mrs Aubrey and then, very sketchily, to Beth. ‘If you will excuse me now, ladies, I have a great deal of business to attend to before I leave Fratcombe.’ He bowed again to the rector. In a trice, he was gone.

Beth flung herself out of bed and just managed to reach the basin in time. It was months since she had suffered one of her sick headaches, but yesterday’s encounter with Jonathan had brought back all her guilty fears. She had been tossing and turning all night. Now she had a pounding head, and sickness, as well.

She felt for her towel, dipped it in the cold water in the ewer, and wiped her face. Then she crawled back to bed, and lay there, panting. No point in trying to light her candle. At this stage in her headache, she would barely be able to see. It would be like standing in a dark, narrow tunnel, with occasional pulses of painfully bright light striking into her eyes like arrows.

She tried to push aside her fears, to blank her mind, but the ideas kept on drumming like a nasty refrain. She had agreed to take the place of honour at a Fratcombe Manor dinner. She would have to suffer all those pointing fingers, all those whispered insults. She deserved them, for she was a nobody, perhaps even a fugitive. But she had agreed. She could not escape.

The nausea gripped her again and she raced for the basin. This time she carried it back to the bed and laid it carefully on the floor. This was going to be very bad. Usually, her headaches lasted only an hour or two, at most. Usually, she managed to conceal her pain from the Aubreys and even from Hetty. But usually there was no sickness. Sickness was impossible to hide.

For a long time, she lay on her back, eyes closed, trying to control her body. She was shivering as if it were winter rather than midsummer. She tried to breathe deeply, to think of innocent, beautiful things, like summer flowers and laughing children. Eventually, the shaking stopped and she dozed a little.

She was in a grand dining room. It must be Christmas, for the room was decked with holly and ivy. One moment she was sitting at table in the place of honour, the next, all the guests were attacking her, pointing fingers, screaming abuse, throwing branches of greenery into her face. She put up her hands to ward them off and was smeared with the waxy film of mistletoe berries. There was no one to defend her, not even the Aubreys. She shrank from her attackers. In her dream, she knew them all. In her dream, she knew that she was to be cast out. She struggled against the hands that were trying to grab her-

‘Miss Beth! Miss Beth, wake up!’

She screamed.

‘Miss Beth, wake up!’ A cold cloth was put to her brow and held firmly.

She groaned and tried to open her eyes. Hetty was hovering anxiously, mopping Beth’s face. It was after dawn. There was light coming through the shutters, blessed light that Beth could see. The tunnel had gone.

‘You have one of your sick headaches,’ Hetty said flatly. ‘I will tell Mrs Aubrey and then I will make your peppermint tea.’

‘Hetty, don’t tell Mrs-’

Hetty straightened and shook her head. ‘I have to, Miss Beth. You can’t possibly teach the children when you are in such a state.’ She nodded towards the basin on the floor. ‘I know you sometimes hide it when it’s only the headache, but you can’t hide this. Mrs Aubrey will want you to stay in bed until the sickness has gone. And you know it’s for the best.’

Beth tried to protest. She began to push herself up, but it was more than she could manage. The nausea threatened to overcome her again. She sank back on to her pillows and willed her stomach to behave.

‘Lie still and breathe deeply,’ Hetty said gently. ‘I’ll be back with the tisane in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ She tried to smile encouragingly and then whipped out of the bedchamber.

Chastened, Beth did as she was told. She had no choice. Until this attack subsided, she was not going to be able to do anything. Except think.

She had promised Jonathan she would do it. For the Aubreys, he had said. But when he was holding her hand, when they were touching, skin to skin, she would have agreed to anything he asked. She was being a fool, all over again. She had berated herself before, for thinking of him as her silver knight. Now she was thinking of him as a man-a living, breathing, desirable man-which was even more idiotic. He could be nothing to her. He was a great nobleman. She was a foundling with no past, not even a name of her own. If the terrors of her dreams were even half true, she had done something wicked in her past life, and her present sufferings were probably a just punishment.

Perhaps the dinner at Fratcombe Manor was part of that punishment, an ordeal she had to undergo in order to be cleansed? That thought was oddly calming. The pounding in her head was even beginning to recede. It was a sign.

She was going to have to find a way of meeting, and enduring, the trial to come. It was her only hope of overcoming the demons that haunted her.

It was late afternoon when Jon strolled into his mother’s sitting room in the east wing of Portbury Abbey, his principal estate. She always sat here in the afternoons, to avoid the sun, she said, which was ruinous to a lady’s complexion. Since Jon had returned from Spain as brown as a nut, she had stopped adding that the sun was ruinous to a gentleman’s complexion, too.

‘Jonathan! At last! I had almost given you up!’

He came forward to kiss her hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mama. I hope I see you well?’

‘Tolerably so, my dear.’ She patted the place by her side, but before he could sit down, she said, ‘Have you ordered tea? No, of course you have not. Ring the bell, would you, dear?’

Nothing had changed. His mother was well-intentioned, but she did have a lamentable tendency to treat her sons as though they were still in short coats.

He crossed to the empty fireplace to pull the bell. How long would it be before she drove him to distraction, all over again? He had told her he planned to remain at the Abbey for three weeks, to deal with estate business, but he had barely set foot in the place before he was wondering whether he might need to create an urgent summons back to the peace of Fratcombe. It was yet another reminder of the duty he had been trying to ignore. If he wanted to reorder this house according to his own lights, rather than his mother’s, he had to find himself a wife. This time, however, he was determined that the wife would be a lady of his own careful choosing. He planned to take his time. Eventually, he would install a new countess at the Abbey, and his mother would move back to the Dower House. Eventually, he would have peace.

The door opened. Jon ignored it. It was his mother’s role to give instructions to the servants.

‘Oh, forgive me!’ It was a young and educated voice, not a servant’s.

Jon spun round. Standing in the doorway was possibly the loveliest young woman he had ever seen, with guinea-gold curls framing a heart-shaped face and eyes the colour of bluebells. Damn it! His mother was match-making again! Just how many beauties had she installed here to tempt him? Had she turned his working visit into a house party on the sly?

The young lady dropped Jon a very elegant curtsy and then came into the room. ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ she said again. ‘Had I known you had company, I should not have intruded.’

‘This is not company, this is my son, Jonathan, home to do his duty as host. And about time, too.’ His mother rose. ‘You will permit me to present him to you?’

The girl blushed the colour of overripe strawberries.

‘Lady Cissy, I should like to introduce my son, the Earl of Portbury, lately a major with the army in Spain. Jonathan, make your bow to Lady Cissy Middleton, second daughter of the Duke of Sherford.’

Jonathan swallowed his ire and bowed courteously. It was not the child’s fault, after all, that his mother was overstepping the mark yet again. As a dutiful son, he could not possibly respond in kind.

Lady Cissy sank into a deep curtsy. When she rose, she offered him her hand with practised elegance. ‘I am delighted to meet you at last, my lord,’ she said, looking up at him through thick golden lashes and then opening her eyes very wide, as if she were beholding something amazing.

‘Practised’ was definitely the word, Jon decided, with an inward groan. Why did his mother always choose rank and artifice over principles and honesty? He found himself remembering Beth Aubrey’s sharp retorts with more admiration than he had felt at the time. She told the truth. She defended the weak. And she did not flirt. Unlike Lady Cissy.

He helped the girl to a seat beside his mother. He had a feeling this was going to be a very tedious afternoon.

Three sentences from the lady’s lips confirmed his worst fears. She was as empty-headed as most of her ilk. What’s more, she had a high-pitched giggle that would drive any sane man to drink.