A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel

Chapter Two

Mrs Judd put him right at once. ‘Miss Woodrowe, sir? Oh aye. It was well known that she was to marry Master Tom. Lady Eliot had it all worked out from the time they was little. When old Mr Woodrowe died, she was that determined little Miss Polly should come to them, but Mrs Woodrowe refused and Sir Nathan didn’t push on it.’

Alex waited. There was never any need to probe with Mrs Judd. Once she was away on village gossip, there was no stopping her. He usually took care not to start her, feeling that, as rector, it ought to be beneath him to listen to gossip. Unless, as in this case, he needed information. Then she was a godsend and he did his very best not to view it as entertainment. In this case, as her daughter was cook to the Eliots, she was the best source he could hope for.

‘Course it’s all different now.’ Mrs Judd rolled out the pastry with great vigour. ‘That guardian or whatever he was turned Miss Polly’s fortune into ducks and drakes as the saying is. Didn’t leave her a feather to fly with, they say.’

She looked up at Alex over the pastry. ‘My Nan says Lady Eliot was fit to tie when the news came. Nan expected to see poor Miss Polly any day, but she never arrived. Then word came she’d taken a position teaching.’ Mrs Judd snorted. ‘Lady Eliot said it was just as well.’

‘And Mr Eliot?’ Alex’s jaw had clenched so hard he could scarcely get the words out. Two years ago. Tom Eliot was twenty-five now. He had been well and truly of age. What had held him back from fulfilling his obligations to his cousin? A girl to whom he had been as good as betrothed, even if he had never actually offered for her.

Ellie Judd banged the rolling pin down on the table and a tabby cat by the fire glanced up. ‘Reckon he did just as her ladyship told him. Like Sir Nathan. Less trouble that way.’ Mrs Judd sprinkled a little flour over the pastry and rolled it over the raised pie. ‘Nan reckons Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.’

* * *

Alex gazed unseeingly at the letter he had been writing to the bishop about the proposed schoolmaster. He supposed he could understand the Eliots’ outlook, even if he deplored the worldly attitude to marriage that it reflected. Tom Eliot and Miss Woodrowe had not been precisely betrothed, but it had been an understood thing that once she was old enough he would offer and she would accept. It kept her fortune safely in the family and provided a wealthy bride for Tom, easing the burden of finding dowries for Miss Eliot and Miss Mary Eliot.

But with no money the match was seen as unsuitable. He gritted his teeth. The Eliots would not have been alone in thinking that. And it might have been awkward housing Miss Woodrowe, but to let her go to be a governess—that was the bit that stuck in his throat. Two years ago? At just nineteen, dash it! Miss Hippolyta Woodrowe had been cast adrift to earn her keep.

He looked again at the letter.

‘...therefore I would be grateful if your lordship could recommend a man to take up these duties as soon as may be in the New Year...’

Miss Woodrowe’s determined face slid into his mind.

I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would...

He shoved the thought away. It was important to get a good man into the position. Many people disliked the idea of the parish schools the Church wished to set up, believing it dangerous to educate the poor above their station. The right man, one who could win respect, would go a long way towards breaking down those prejudices. The world was changing. No longer could children be assured of jobs on the estates they were born on. They needed schools to give them a chance.

Polly—Miss Woodrowe needs a chance.

He shoved the thought away. The school had to succeed. And if he put a woman in charge, a young lady...a lady’s place was in the home, not out earning her living...she was not made for independence...

And what if her home and fortune has been taken from her? What if she has no choice?

Then her family should take care of her!

That was how it had been for his own mother. Memories slid back. He’d been ten when his father died heavily in debt, old enough to realise his mother’s grief was edged with fear. Fear she had tried to hide from him as she wrote letter after letter to her own family. He had found some of the replies after her death. Offers to house her—in return for her otherwise unpaid services as governess, or companion. None had been prepared to take her child as well.

Only Dominic’s father had offered the widow a home along with her child. Offered to educate his brother’s son and provide for him. As a child Alex had taken it for granted. Now he knew how lucky they had been. Not all families could, or would, provide for an impoverished widow and child.

What would have become of his mother if Uncle David had not taken them in?

Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.

He could believe that if they’d allowed her to come asking about the position of village schoolmistress!

His kindly uncle had settled a small annuity on his widowed sister-in-law, providing a measure of independence along with a home.

Picking up the pen, he dipped it in the ink and continued, politely enquiring after the bishop’s health and that of his wife. A moment later he laid the pen down, glared at the letter and tore it in two. Mouth set hard, he took another piece of paper, picked up the pen and began, with considerably less care, another letter, this time to his cousin Dominic, Lord Alderley.

He had prayed for the right teacher for the school, and he believed that God always answered prayer. The trick was in recognising an unexpected answer.

* * *

Polly pushed open the door of the village shop, glad to be out of the wind again. It sliced through her old cloak straight to the bone. Mr Filbert popped up from behind the gleaming counter. He stared for a moment, then his gnome’s smile broke.

‘Why, it’s you, Miss Polly!’

She managed a smile. Mr Filbert was someone whose manner towards her hadn’t changed at all. ‘Good day, Mr Filbert. My aunt sent me in for some embroidery silks.’

He blinked. ‘Miss Eliot and Miss Mary were here just a few moments ago buying silks for Lady Eliot,’ he told her. ‘They didn’t say anything about your being with them.’

Probably because she wasn’t. She’d had no idea her cousins had been planning to visit the village. She could only pray they’d seen her neither entering nor leaving the rectory.

‘A misunderstanding,’ she said carefully. ‘Thank you.’

‘They went back to the inn,’ he said helpfully.

The already gloomy morning dimmed a little further. Her cousins had heard their mother set her the errand of walking into the village for new embroidery threads and had said nothing. What would have happened if Mrs Filbert had served her and she’d bought the threads again? She forced the bitter, uncharitable thoughts back. Perhaps they hadn’t decided to come in until after she’d left. They hadn’t passed her on the road, so it wasn’t as if they’d had a chance to offer to take her up.

‘Thank you, Mr Filbert,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’ll find them.’

She hurried out of the shop and down the street towards the inn, just in time to see the Eliot coach turning out of the inn yard towards the manor.

‘Susan! Mary!’ Probably they hadn’t seen her...ah, John Coachman had. He was slowing the horses. She picked up her pace, hurrying towards the carriage. Susan frowned, leaning forwards, clearly giving an order. John responded, pointing his whip at Polly hurrying to the coach. Susan’s chin lifted, she spoke again, the words indistinct, but her tone sharp... John hesitated, cast Polly an apologetic look and urged the horses on.

Polly slowed to a stunned halt, staring after the departing carriage. Hurt fury welled up, scalding her throat, as she set out for home. The frost had thawed that morning, leaving the lane muddy. By the time she was halfway there, her skirts six inches deep in mud she would have to brush off, she had a new plan. Very well. Her aunt had refused to give her a reference. Mr Martindale had failed her. She braced her shoulders against the biting wind. She would ask Pippa, Lady Alderley, for a reference.

* * *

Polly had reached the manor gates before she heard the rumble of wheels slowing behind her. She didn’t bother looking around even as the gig slowed beside her.

‘Miss Woodrowe. What on earth are you doing?’

The familiar voice sounded furious.

She turned and met Alex Martindale’s scowl. ‘Sir?’

‘What are you doing?’ he repeated.

‘Returning ho—to my uncle’s house,’ she amended. A home was where you felt welcome, where you belonged.

His frown deepened. ‘But...you’re walking!’

‘I can’t fly,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘An oversight, but there it is.’

For a moment he stared and she cursed her unruly tongue. Would she never learn to curb it? That was something that other Miss Woodrowe, the rich Miss Woodrowe, might have said. In her it would have been amusing, witty. In plain Polly Woodrowe it was impertinence.

Then he laughed and it lit the grey eyes which crinkled at the corners in a way that drew her own smile. ‘Touché. Stupid thing to say. May I at least give you a lift down the drive?’ He held his hand out, still with that lilt to his mouth. She hesitated, even as her heart kicked to a canter, remembering that his smile had always been just that little bit crooked. There was nothing remotely improper in accepting. Mr Martindale was the rector, and it was an open carriage. For the length of the carriage drive. Except...Aunt Eliot would think her designing, and there would be another row, when she still had not found a position—she quelled a shudder. ‘It’s out of your way, sir,’ she excused herself, ignoring the little ache of regret.

He shook his head. ‘Actually, no, it isn’t. After you left, I realised that I needed to speak to your uncle about something.’

‘Oh.’ Oh, dear God. Surely he wasn’t going to complain about her? ‘I’m...I’m sorry if you were offended that I asked for the teaching position.’ Somehow she choked the words out, fought to look suitably chastened. ‘There’s no need to mention it to my uncle. I won’t ask again.’

‘What?’ He stared at her, puzzlement in those grey eyes. She’d always been fascinated by the utterly black rims, and those dark, dark lashes... ‘You thought I was going to complain about you? No, Miss Woodrowe, I was not!’ Now he did sound offended.

She opened her mouth to apologise, but he forestalled her.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Not one word. Do you hear me?’

She nodded, fuming at the autocratic tone.

‘Right. Up you come, then.’ That was an outright command.

Seething, she placed her hand in his, felt the powerful clasp of long fingers as he steadied her and helped her up. The horse stood patiently while he flipped the driving rug off his own legs and over hers.

‘Sir—’

‘Not a word!’

That the Reverend Alex Martindale could sound so angry was a revelation. She sat in silence the length of the carriage drive.

* * *

Polly stood quietly while Aunt Eliot railed at her. Once she had been considered an intimate of the family, permitted to use the more familiar Aunt Aurelia. Once she had been a welcome guest. Not any more. There was quite a difference between the wealthy heiress of a mill owner and the impoverished daughter of trade.

‘The presumption! Calling out in that vulgar fashion, in the middle of the street!’

‘I thought they had not seen me, Aunt.’ She swallowed. Had she given it the least thought, she would have known that any not seeing had been deliberate. Susan and Mary took their tone from their mother.

Lady Eliot ignored this. ‘And where is the money I gave you for embroidery silks?’

She wondered what her aunt would say if she handed her a packet of silks instead. ‘Here, Aunt.’ She took the coins from her pocket and held them out. Lady Eliot took them with a sniff and counted them. She glared at her niece. ‘You’ll have to go back later. Miss Susan forgot the blues.’

It was the Miss Susan that did it...

Polly opened her mouth, fully intending a polite acquiescence.

‘No.’ It was said before she even knew it was there. She braced herself. It was out and it wasn’t going back. Not if she was now supposed to refer to her cousins as Miss Susan and Miss Mary.

Lady Eliot’s eyes bulged. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, no, Aunt. I’ve been once, and I’m not going again. Send Susan.’

‘Why you ungrateful, impertinent, little—’

Polly let the storm rage about her. Odd how it didn’t bother her now, when only a day or so ago she would have been close to tears, wondering how to placate her aunt. Now she simply didn’t care.

* * *

Alex followed his faintly offended host along the hallway of the Manor.

‘I cannot think that Lady Eliot will approve this offer, Martindale,’ huffed Sir Nathan. ‘Hippolyta has every comfort here, as well as the countenance and protection of her family.’

‘Of course,’ said Alex. He was half-inclined to make his excuses and leave. Clearly the Eliots were not, after all, trying to shove Polly out the door and he had misinterpreted the situation, placed too much credence in what was, after all, mere gossip. Polly—Miss Woodrowe was likely quite happy with her family and had approached him out of pride—not a sin at all to be encouraged, although he could understand her not liking to be beholden.

And if Sir Nathan’s nose was out of joint, that was as nothing to Lady Eliot’s likely response. At which unwelcome thought he became aware of a strident female voice carrying down the hallway. Someone—apparently a presumptuous, ungrateful viper—was in a deal of trouble. It sounded as though one of the housemaids was being dismissed. Sir Nathan, who was more than a little deaf, appeared not to notice anything unusual, but continued along the hallway to the drawing-room door.

Alex hesitated, but Sir Nathan said, ‘We shall see what her ladyship says,’ and opened the door for him.

‘Lady Eliot, here is Mr Martindale with a most extraordinary proposal.’

‘...ungrateful, shop-bred upstart—’

Lady Eliot’s diatribe was cut off as if by a knife slash.

Alex advanced into the room. Her ladyship sat enthroned in a high-backed chair by the fire, a firescreen embroidered with revoltingly coy nymphs and shepherds protecting her face from the heat. The tea table beside her bore a heavy silver tray with a teapot, creamer, sugar bowl, and a single cup and saucer.

Before her stood Polly, staring at him in obvious shock, and not a housemaid, let alone a miscreant one, in sight.

Alex took a savage grip on his own temper. Lady Eliot had been berating Polly. Shop-bred. Viper. Presumptuous.

Hot colour flooded Polly’s pale cheeks as she looked at him, yet she held her head high. Embarrassment then. Not shame.

‘Mr Martindale—how pleasant!’ said Lady Eliot, her voice executing a complete about turn. ‘Will you not be seated, and I shall ring for more tea.’ The effusive graciousness grated on Alex. Her ladyship turned to Polly with a smile. ‘Hippolyta, dear—I shall not keep you now. We may speak later.’

Hippolyta, dear? What had happened to the shop-bred upstart?

‘Actually, I should prefer Miss Woodrowe to remain,’ said Alex. ‘My proposition involves her.’

He barely heard Lady Eliot’s shocked ‘Indeed!’ for the flare of light in Polly’s eyes and the way her soft lips parted. Dragging his wits back together, he continued. ‘Ah, yes. That is, you are probably aware that my cousin, Lord Alderley—’ he loathed the necessity of making play with Dominic’s name, but the devil was in the driving seat here— ‘and I intend to establish a village school.’

Her ladyship sniffed. ‘He mentioned it at the christening. Naturally, I did not hesitate to offer my opinion.’

Naturally not.

She went on. ‘I cannot think it wise. To be encouraging the lower orders to reach above the station in which God has set them must lead to discontent. We must accept the lot to which He has intended us.’

Alex managed not to roll his eyes. She was far from the only one to think that way. Usually persons whose lot God had set in a very fair ground. ‘I am rather of the opinion, ma’am, that God moves in mysterious ways and that where He has seeded talent, it ought to be encouraged to flower.’

Lady Eliot looked anything but convinced, and Alex continued. ‘While my cousin and I initially intended to employ a schoolmaster, we now think it better to engage a woman.’ Dominic had no idea yet that Alex had changed his mind, but Alex was fairly sure he’d explained it clearly enough in the letter he’d sent over before coming here.

His gaze met Polly’s and his wits scattered again at the sight of her blazing eyes and those soft, parted lips. Lord! His heart appeared to have stopped and his breath tangled in his throat, while a distinctly unclerical question slid through his mind: what would those lips taste like? Ripe? Sweet? A hot, unfamiliar ache gathered low in his belly. Disturbing—because while it might be unfamiliar, he knew quite well what it was.

He cleared his throat, but the idea twisted it up again. What on earth was the matter with him? He was the rector, for God’s sake. Literally for God’s sake! He was meant to be an example and shepherd to his flock, not lust after the women in his congregation! He cleared his throat again, this time successfully enough to speak.

‘It has come to my attention that Miss Woodrowe—’ He let his gaze touch Polly again, felt again the leap of sensation and had to regather his thoughts. ‘That Pol—that is, Miss Woodrowe has some experience as a governess and I wondered if she might consider accepting the position.’

‘Really, Mr Martindale!’ Lady Eliot’s nostrils flared. ‘What an extraordinary idea! I do not think you can have—’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Polly’s quiet voice cut in. ‘I should like very much to discuss it with you.’

‘What?’ Lady Eliot glared at her. ‘Hippolyta, you cannot have considered the implications! And even if you had, you will of course be advised and ruled by those in authority over you!’

Polly’s mouth firmed. ‘I am of age, Aunt, and in authority over myself. I may be advised by my family, but I will be ruled by my own conscience and judgement.’

‘Now, Hippolyta—’ bleated Sir Nathan.

‘You will remain with your family connections, Hippolyta,’ snapped Lady Eliot. ‘Just this morning I have received a letter from my cousin Maria, Lady Littleworth. She is still willing to house you as her companion, despite your foolish decision to accept another post two years ago. There is nothing more to be said.’ She sat back. ‘It would present a very odd appearance,’ she continued, clearly not having listened to herself, ‘if a girl living under Sir Nathan’s protection were to be sallying forth to earn her living as a village schoolmistress.’ Her voice dripped disdain.

Sir Nathan nodded. ‘Very odd appearance. Indeed—’ this with an air of clinching the argument ‘—’tis not possible. How would she get to and fro?’

Alex braced himself. He didn’t approve, but he was starting to understand why Polly Woodrowe was so anxious to leave this house on her own terms if the alternative was an unpaid position with Lady Littleworth.

‘Naturally the offer includes Miss Woodrowe’s accommodation at the schoolhouse if she wishes it.’ Hoping Polly could remain with her family, he’d not mentioned that to Sir Nathan earlier and the fellow goggled like a landed trout.

Alex took a deep breath and incinerated every bridge. ‘If Miss Woodrowe wants it, the position is hers.’

‘Really, Mr Martindale!’ Lady Eliot’s mouth pinched. ‘We cannot possibly countenance such a—’

‘Thank you, Mr Martindale,’ said Polly calmly. Her face glowed as she turned to him. ‘If I may have a key, I will walk into the village tomorrow and decide what will be needed.’

He scowled. The deuce she would. ‘As to that, Miss Po—Miss Woodrowe—I have the keys with me now and would be delighted to drive you.’

Lady Eliot drew herself up. ‘I must make quite plain that this has not Sir Nathan’s approbation!’

Alex bowed to her. ‘I perfectly understand that, ma’am.’ He turned back to Polly. ‘Fetch your cloak, Miss Woodrowe. I will await you in the front hall.’

* * *

Polly stared about the second room of the schoolhouse in rising panic. She had not thought. She simply had not thought, had not known. But now the reality of the two-roomed cottage crashed over her like snow falling off a branch.

The schoolroom was in fine order. Neat rows of desks, a cupboard holding slates and other equipment. Books on a bookshelf, a desk for the teacher and a great fireplace. She had seen a huge stack of wood outside. Clearly teacher and pupils were not expected to freeze. The schoolroom itself had been freshly whitewashed and was more than acceptable.

This room, too, had been whitewashed. And that was it. There was nothing in it. Nothing. An alcove to one side, with a wide shelf clearly intended for a bed, was innocent of mattress and bedding. There was no furniture. There was nothing. She swallowed. Even if there were something, she realised with a jolt of shock, she would have no idea how to so much as cook her dinner. There wasn’t even a cooking pot in which to cook it, although there was an iron rod, with a hook to suspend a pot, that clearly swung in and out of the fireplace. She had seen such arrangements when visiting women in the village...but a cooking pot would cost money, and she would need a table, and chair to sit on, and bedding and...

And she was not going to give up! She had got the position and she was jolly well going to keep it. She had some money. Not much, but surely enough to buy a few simple things to furnish this room.

She lifted her chin. ‘I will need to—’

‘It won’t do,’ said Mr Martindale. He swung around on her, his grey eyes hard. ‘You can’t possibly live here! I must have been insane to suggest it.’

Her determination firmed. ‘Why not?’ All the reasons why not were buzzing frantically in her head. If she could swat them aside, why could not he? ‘It...it just needs furniture. A table and chair. Perhaps a settee to sit by the fire. Some bedding and a...a cooking pot.’

His glance skewered her. ‘Polly, do you even know how to cook?’

She stiffened. ‘Do you?’ She tried to ignore the leap of her pulse, the sudden clutch of her lungs at the sound of her name, her pet name, on his lips. For two years she had been Miss Woodrowe. Her aunt and cousins insisted on Hippolyta now. No one, not one person, had called her Polly since her mother’s death. And he shouldn’t be now.

‘I have Mrs Judd,’ he pointed out with a smile.

‘And I have a brain,’ she said, ruthlessly quelling the little flare of delight at his smile. ‘And I can buy a book. And...and ask advice. Please.’ Oh, curse it! She’d sworn not to beg.

‘You’ll be alone,’ he said. ‘A young woman, alone.’ His mouth firmed. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘My uncle is right. I cannot possibly go back and forth from his house.’ Better to make the break completely and establish her independence. Aunt Eliot would put every sort of rub in her way. But the bubble of panic rose again. Women were not intended for independence. It was wrong. Against the proper order. Unnatural. She swatted those thoughts away, too. Any number of people had probably thought it against the natural order when King John was forced to sign the Magna Carta. The sky hadn’t fallen then either.