Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding

Rising above all this was Chalfont House, standing like a magnificent work of art, the brilliantly lit stained-glass windows of the seventeenth century glinting as they caught the sun. The effect was stunning.

Set against this background of unashamed opulence, the lawns and terraces were swarming with titled, wealthy and influential guests, their beautiful gowns, jackets, bonnets and parasols competing with the flower-filled beds. Lady Lansbury presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of eau-de-Nil shot silk with a matching turban trimmed with plumes of a moderate height.

Into this select assembly the proud figure of Lydia Spelling stepped on to the high terrace to make her grand entrance. This was the first time Jane had seen her close up and her heart sank at the exquisite picture of fashionable sophistication she made.

Miss Spelling was sandwiched between the Earl of Lansbury and her father, a short, portly man with mutton-chop whiskers, his face carved in hard lines. With her dark hair perfectly coiffed beneath a plume of tantalising white feathers, and a fitted, high-necked jacket of quilted deep-rose satin that hugged her body and accentuated the full swell of her breasts, Lydia Spelling’s appearance was dramatic and could not be faulted. She was not beautiful, or even pretty, but alarmingly arresting.

A hush descended as conversation petered out and every head turned in her direction. Chalfont’s gardens offered the perfect stage on which an ambitious young woman might make her mark, but it was a world in which Lydia Spelling’s place was already secure. It was a grand entrance carried out as only Lydia Spelling could, with enormous panache, and Jane was grudgingly forced to admire it. She saw before her an experienced woman of the world, at ease with men and determined in her goals.

Watching her, Jane was both resentful and fascinated. Whatever she had expected of Miss Spelling, nothing had prepared her for the remarkable presence of the American woman. Jane remembered everything she had heard about her from the servants and now she could believe it all. Miss Spelling had the magnetism and the power that Jane could never possess.

Jane felt strangely inadequate, knowing she could never compete with the worldly experience and fascination of Miss Spelling. She felt vulnerable and gauche.

Lord Lansbury fixed his steady gaze on the figure of his mother seated in a high-backed chair beneath a large parasol, presiding over her birthday party. Accompanied by Miss Spelling and her father, he made his way towards her. Without exception the guests stepped aside so that their progress was unimpaired and before the three of them had reached the Countess of Lansbury conversation had resumed.

Octavia immediately grasped Jane’s hand and pulled her in the direction of her brother. They were both breathing heavily by the time they reached the group.

On reaching his mother, Christopher bent his head and kissed her cheek before drawing Lydia forward.

Lady Lansbury smiled as her eyes settled on the woman who might well become the Countess of Lansbury, her daughter-in-law. ‘Lydia, my dear. How charming you look. I am so pleased you and your father are here to enjoy my birthday party. I am sorry your visit to Chalfont will be brief, although I am certain you will enjoy your trip to Paris.’

‘I’m sure we will, Lady Lansbury. We leave tomorrow, but we were keen to attend your party.’

‘I hope you have a pleasant few weeks. You will miss her, Christopher.’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ he replied, smiling at Lydia.

‘Perhaps you will appreciate me all the more when I return,’ Lydia remarked, trying to catch his eyes, but his attention was caught by Octavia practically jumping up and down to get his attention, bringing a frown of disapproval to Miss Spelling’s brow.

Jane thought Lord Lansbury seemed taller and more elegant than ever. Trying to still her racing heart, not wishing to intrude on the group, she hung back, reluctant to put herself forward. Lord Lansbury received her with polite courtesy and Miss Spelling, with kid-gloved hand placed in a possessive manner on his arm, with a practised smile and noticeable coolness.

Laughing gaily, Octavia wrapped her arms about her brother’s waist, much to Miss Spelling’s annoyance. She took a step back as if she’d been stung when the child reached out to touch one of the flounces on her skirt.

‘Please don’t touch my dress, Lady Octavia,’ she snapped.

Octavia snatched her hand away and stared up at her before sending Jane a look of piteous bewilderment, not liking the tone of Miss Spelling’s voice and not knowing what she’d done wrong.

Seeing the hurt and distress on Octavia’s face, Jane took her hand and drew her to her side. ‘Lady Octavia was only admiring your dress. She has done no harm so please don’t shout at her.’ Looking down at Octavia, she smiled. ‘Don’t be upset, Lady Octavia. You have done no wrong.’

Taken aback by the sharp firmness in Jane’s voice, Miss Spelling stared at her with severe reproach. ‘And why should she not be reprimanded? Spare the rod and spoil the child is what they say, is it not?’

‘They can say what they like,’ Lord Lansbury said with a deadly calm. ‘We like spoiling Octavia.’ Turning from her and looking fondly at his sister, he stroked her cheek. ‘Are you all right, poppet?’ She nodded up at him and he smiled tenderly, hoping that what could have turned out to be an awkward situation had been averted. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Miss Mortimer, Lydia,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe the two of you have met.’

Miss Spelling looked at her with a mocking air, making no attempt to hide her scrutiny. Her eyes were hard as she looked Jane up and down that was only a shade away from insolence. She assessed Jane in a manner suggesting she thought she must have fallen on hard times.

‘Do come closer, Miss Mortimer. There is no need to be so ill at ease, I assure you. I bark, but never have I been known to bite. Lady Lansbury has told me about you. You are Lady Octavia’s governess?’

In that intense moment, surrounded by the opulence of Lady Lansbury’s guests, Jane felt some emotion from Miss Spelling, pressing in on her, squeezing her with icy, inflexible fingers. The woman was striking, secure in her own strength and sure of her own incomparable worth.

‘I suppose Miss Mortimer does hold the position as Octavia’s governess, but she is more of a companion to her,’ Lord Lansbury provided. ‘We met on the ship when we were returning from France. Her quick actions saved Octavia’s life. We have much to be grateful to her for.’

Miss Spelling gave Jane a look which suggested that her presence devalued the occasion, shaking her head as if pondering what the world was coming to when the upper classes entertained their servants.

‘You have been abroad, Miss Mortimer?’

‘I have lived abroad almost all my life,’ Jane answered. ‘My father was an historian—a writer and collector of antiquities. We travelled extensively.’

‘Really?’ Miss Spelling replied, seemingly unimpressed. The full red smile never wavered, but her eyes were cold. Everything about her was precise and impeccable. ‘How very odd.’

Jane managed to retain a cool and unruffled expression as she watched Miss Spelling’s diamond earrings flash against her cheeks. She looked in vain for some trace of softness in her, but she was as hard as the trunk of the stout oak tree behind her. ‘Not at all. His work was interesting.’ Jane felt Miss Spelling’s eyes on her once more and an aura of sensuous rose perfume wafted around her.

‘And did you assist him in his work?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And do you miss the work?’

‘I do, although it didn’t end when he died. I still have much to do to complete the work he left unfinished. I enjoyed working with him and we travelled to many interesting places. We even travelled on a camel train from China to Northern India. After that we went to Europe, to Greece and on to Egypt, which was where he died nearly four months ago.’

‘It sounds—unusual, to say the least. But what manner of man takes his daughter round the world with no protection other than himself—and then...?’

Jane heard reproach in the deep, husky voice and her spine stiffened. For some mysterious reason Miss Spelling had clearly taken an instant dislike to her. She suddenly resented the rounded curves, the dark hair piled up on the haughty, fascinating head. Her own eyes narrowed.

‘What? Died? My father was a good man, Miss Spelling, loving and caring,’ she said in his defence, trying to keep her anger at the woman’s rudeness in check, ‘and you insult me by implying otherwise. Until his death he was a healthy, vigorous man. He didn’t know he was going to die. And he taught me well—mainly how to cope when things became difficult. Which I did.’

For one vivid instant the air between them shivered with tense friction. But if Miss Spelling was disconcerted by Jane’s abrupt and forthright manner, she hid it quickly under a mask of indifference.

‘I see.’ She looked towards where a lady seated next to Lady Lansbury was beckoning to her with a hand glittering with sapphires. ‘Excuse me, Miss Mortimer. I am being summoned.’

Jane nodded, feeling irritated that she should be so summarily dismissed. ‘Of course. Don’t let me keep you.’

* * *

Lord Lansbury watched Lydia go before turning to Jane. Her violet eyes with their long shadowing lashes were following Lydia. In one quick glance he saw the change her dress had made to her, the long creamy neck exposed. He saw the tiny dimple in her chin and the voluptuous curve of her red lips. He saw the tiny black mole high on her cheek where the rose faded into the gleaming white of her forehead. She was sensuous, provocative, glowing with colour like a country girl, and it seemed to him she was quite out of place among the elegant and sophisticated guests.

His granite features softened as if he understood how angry and humiliated she must be feeling by Lydia’s thoughtless remark. ‘I apologise for Lydia,’ he said. ‘She shouldn’t have said that about your father. I can see she has offended you with her frankness.’

At any other time she would have been absurdly flattered by his courtesy and concern, but now she was perplexed and shook her head. ‘Frank to the point of rudeness.’

‘I am sorry you see it that way. Lydia is American and tends to be outspoken.’ His voice was polite as he tried to smooth over the awkwardness of Miss Mortimer’s strained meeting with his future fiancée.

‘That does not excuse her. I am not used to Americans, but I am not prejudiced against the race. Miss Spelling should not have said what she did. I allow no one to speak ill of my father. He was a fine man. A clever man and a loving father. I could not have had better.’

Christopher’s entire face instantly became hard, shuttered and aloof. ‘You are fortunate in that, Miss Mortimer. More than you realise.’ With a slight inclination of his head, he said, ‘Excuse me.’

She stepped back. ‘Of course,’ she said stiffly, somewhat bewildered by the small knot of tension in the centre of her chest.

* * *

Jane knew a keen and surprising sense of disappointment when Lord Lansbury left her so abruptly. She watched him join the animated circle of guests that had collected round his mother. The hum of voices and laughter rose. Jane caught Lady Lansbury’s eye. The conversation between the three of them had been observed by Lady Lansbury, who was not too lost in her own that she was unable to monitor the situation a few yards away.

Jane let her eyes dwell on Lord Lansbury’s face. She had dressed with care, imagining the moment when she found herself in his company. She wanted to do something to make him look at her, and if not exactly see her, then at least realise she had the ability, the mind, perhaps, to capture his masculine attention. She so wanted to see that look in his eyes that he reserved for other females, the look that told them they were the most important person in the world to him at that moment.

Never had any man looked so attractive or so distant, and never had her heart called out so strongly to anyone. She knew she must fight her attraction for him. It would be madness to consider herself anything but out of his class, a social inferior. And his standards were not hers. She tried to pull her wits together, all too aware that the other women were studying her with furtive curiosity. She saw Lord Lansbury smile down into Miss Spelling’s upturned face. For one terrible moment she was seized with passionate hatred for the other woman, so terrible and so unexpected that she was shocked by it.

Normally Jane would feel no qualms about joining a group in conversation, but something about the way Lord Lansbury commanded the attention of those around him and the presence of Miss Spelling made her hold back.

She could not hear what he was saying, but she could tell that this was not just polite attention on the part of the listeners. Lord Lansbury held his audience in thrall. A moment later he laughed at a remark thrown his way, looked up and caught sight of Jane. He raised an eyebrow and then resumed his conversation.

‘Come, Christopher,’ Miss Spelling said, hooking her hand possessively through his arm. ‘I care little for standing still in the hot sun. Shall we circulate?’

The two moved off to exchange social niceties and introductions with the other guests, Miss Spelling sailing forth, very much aware of the stir she had created and obviously enjoying it as she and her handsome escort went from one group to the next.

As Jane watched them from across the stretch of lawn that lay like a rich green carpet between them, Lord Lansbury led Miss Spelling in the direction of a summer house, where several guests were seated, the servants dancing attendance on them. She suddenly realised that although he was perfectly attentive, there was no singular affection between them. There was a distance there and Miss Spelling seemed more interested in nodding and greeting those they encountered than engaging Lord Lansbury in conversation.

As if Lady Lansbury had read her thoughts, moving to stand beside her, she said, ‘So you have been introduced to Miss Spelling, Jane.’ She sighed deeply, shaking her head as her eyes followed her son and the woman who might be his intended as they conversed with the guests. ‘She is an American—which I suppose explains a great deal. And she is attractive, do you not agree, Jane?’

‘How could I not? She is very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ Lady Lansbury said, somewhat absently on a wry note. ‘She has youth, beauty, excellent connections and wealth and a certain fashionable notoriety. What more could a man desire in a woman?’

Continuing to watch the pair, in answer to Lady Lansbury’s wistful comment Jane thought perhaps money was a useful commodity, and property. But then, as the only daughter of an American millionaire, Lydia Spelling had all that. But would she be as desirable if she wasn’t dressed by France’s finest couturiers and wallowing in luxury and wealth? Of course she was as attractive and amusing as any of her contemporaries, but, Jane wondered, was it her money that preceded her whenever she walked into a room? Was it her money that triggered all those sideways covert glances, the conversations that faltered when she approached?

‘Her father is very rich,’ Lady Lansbury went on, ‘made his money in industry—in railroads and armaments and commodities. But he is not a part of the social circle. Some would say Miss Spelling is a good catch, but rich American girls are not accepted by the New York Knickerbocker set.’

‘Then it could also be said that Miss Spelling has landed on her feet.’

‘Exactly. It appears that American girl’s outspokenness and independent spirits are characteristics that Englishmen find charming. On the whole that is the case. Lydia is Mr Spelling’s only child. He is ambitious. He wants only the very best for his daughter—a title, which is why he has brought her to Europe to display her like a costly gem to be admired. This gem is destined for a coronet, at least. Christopher can provide him with that. I can only hope my son knows what he’s doing.’

‘I’m sure he does, Lady Lansbury,’ Jane answered, careful to hide her envy of Lydia Spelling while wishing with every fibre of her being that she was the woman being flaunted on Lord Lansbury’s arm.

‘I’m not at all sure, Jane. I have great affection for my son, but he does have his faults. I’m concerned about him doing the right thing. But of course I take care not to let such comments reach his ears. It is his affair, after all, who he marries. But if I were a betting woman I’d wager he isn’t in love with her.’

‘Not everyone who marries is in love,’ Jane said quietly. ‘In some of the countries I have visited, men and women have their marriages arranged by their parents. Sometimes the couple don’t meet until their wedding day. I’ve heard the opinion that love and marriage are two separate things.’

Lady Lansbury studied her closely. ‘And what is your opinion, Jane?’

‘That those who expressed that opinion must be sadly cynical people. What other reason is there to marry?’

‘Children is a good place to start.’

Jane gave Lady Lansbury a look of feigned astonishment. ‘Oh! I did not realise one needed a wedding ceremony to beget children.’

Lady Lansbury laughed. ‘What a wicked observation, Jane. Some would say you are quite shocking.’

‘Wicked, maybe, but also sensible.’

Lady Lansbury’s smile died. ‘You are a wonderful revelation, Jane, and I shall enjoy continuing our conversation on marriage at another time.’ She glanced once more in the direction of her son, but then, recollecting herself, she looked directly at Jane. ‘Forgive me, my dear, for being so forthright, but—what I said about Christopher, I am sure I can rely on your discretion.’

As if reading her mind, Jane said, ‘Of course, Lady Lansbury. I never betray a confidence.’

A look of understanding passed between the two women. ‘Thank you, Jane,’ Lady Lansbury answered.

Considering Lord Lansbury’s affairs nothing to do with her, Jane thought it prudent to keep any further opinions on marriage to herself. For the time she had known Lady Lansbury, she had discovered she had a forthright friendliness she liked. They often talked together. Lady Lansbury was very frank. She told Jane how much she admired her Aunt Caroline, who had made quite a niche for herself since her husband’s death ten years ago.

Observing Octavia who was watching her brother, Jane noticed her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were larger and brighter than she had seen them. ‘Are you all right, Lady Octavia?’

She nodded. ‘Can we go and get something to eat? I’m hungry.’

‘Of course we can. If you will excuse us, Lady Lansbury.’

‘Of course, my dear. Run along,’ she said, looking with concern at her daughter as she fidgeted from one foot to the other. ‘Octavia is looking a little flushed. Perhaps it’s the sun.’

‘I’ll get her a glass of iced lemonade—and I’m sure an ice cream would not go amiss,’ she suggested, knowing of Octavia’s love of that particular desert.

‘I don’t like Christopher’s friend,’ Octavia said, in a childishly conspiratorial whisper when they were far enough away from her mother to be overheard.

‘But why? Why don’t you like her, Lady Octavia?’

‘She’s always cross. I just don’t like her. She isn’t my friend.’

And just as suddenly her agitation was gone and she looked up and searched Jane’s face with her soft blue gaze. There was a gentle elusiveness about her that declared her to be as fragile and vulnerable as a summer flower and she possessed a strange, tragic quality that always touched Jane deeply.

‘We shall always be friends, won’t we, Jane?’

‘Yes, Lady Octavia, I will always be your friend,’ Jane said with genuine warmth.

Octavia continued to search Jane’s face. ‘Truly? Cross your heart?’

Jane smiled, then with her forefinger she made a sign over her own heart. ‘Cross my heart,’ she promised.

Chapter Three

Taking Octavia’s hand in her own, Jane led her towards the terrace, where she asked one of the servants to bring ice cream for Octavia and some fruit for herself. Three governesses sat near a graceful white gazebo, watching several children who had come with their parents playing happily with a ball, throwing it from one to the other. Octavia watched them, showing no sign of wanting to join in their fun as their happy voices rang out, mingling with the deeper, more reserved voices of the grown-ups.

For the next half hour Octavia remained close to Jane. She was quiet, with that odd, faraway look in her eyes Jane had become familiar with. Finishing her ice cream, Octavia became restless, which did not go unnoticed by Lady Lansbury.

‘Why don’t you take Octavia for a walk, Jane? Perhaps she would like to go down to the lake to see the swans.’

Jane was more than happy to leave the party. In the field with her father and his contemporaries the difference in rank had seemed irrelevant. What counted was knowledge and expertise and in that environment she had felt equal to anyone. But here among the glittering nobility and gentry where she had not even her looks to recommend her she felt awkward and was glad Lady Lansbury had given her the opportunity to slip away.

Jane took Octavia’s hand and they walked along the garden paths to the back of the house. Jane stared ahead at the surrounding countryside with her eyes narrowed in concentration. The view never failed to impress her. Acres upon breathtaking acres stretched out before her and all owned by one man.

Swans drifted gracefully on the still water of the lake and beyond the lake a hill was topped by an ornate building that reminded Jane of some kind of temple. Its entrance was supported by two columns of the Roman Doric order, and above was an open colonnade of Corinthian columns. The entire structure was surmounted by a cupola. It looked extremely interesting and Jane had already decided to take a closer look when she was alone.

They paused to sit together on the grass, looking through a long stretch of fence that enclosed the stables and the large paddock where horses nibbled at the grass. Drawing her knees up to her chest, with a sigh Jane listened to the distant voices and the hum of busy insects in the grass and wild flowers. She smiled with a feeling of contentment. Chalfont was like nothing she had experienced before and she felt herself ensnared by this lovely place that seemed to be closing itself around her and claiming her for its own.

Having a deep and abiding fear of horses, Octavia was always reluctant to go close to them. Big-eyed, she watched them warily.

‘That’s a mare, Lady Octavia, the brown one with the lovely mane. Is she not beautiful? See how her coat shines with the sun on it. Of course she is groomed every day, so that helps.’

At the sound of her voice the animal raised its head and began to walk towards them. Standing up, Jane went to the fence and, holding out her hand, patted her neck. Out of the corner of her eye she noted how Octavia held back.

‘See, Lady Octavia, she’s as docile as a lamb. I’m sure she would like it if you were to pat her like I’m doing.’

With her eyes fastened on the horse, Octavia got to her feet and gingerly moved close, her hand resting companionably on Jane’s waist as she moved closer to the fence. To Jane’s delight she didn’t draw back when the horse nudged her head against them.

‘Stroke her nose, Lady Octavia, don’t be afraid. Watch me, just there.’ Taking Octavia’s hand, she rested it on the glossy, quivering nose of the animal and the child left it there, unafraid in the confident grasp of her new friend, patting tentatively the patient mare, her bright, long-lashed eyes like cornflowers in the smiling face.

* * *

Christopher watched them as he strolled along the garden path in their direction and he began to smile for their laughter was infectious.

On seeing Miss Mortimer leave the gathering with Octavia and with Lydia engaged in conversation with a group of ladies, in view of his earlier rudeness and feeling that some form of polite apology was now required of him, he’d decided to follow.