A Chaperoned Christmas

Excerpt

A Chaperoned Christmas
Meg Mardell © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Devon, 1879

Candida would have known that black, slim-fitted Saville Row greatcoat on those broad shoulders anywhere. Anywhere, that is, except on the platform of a backwater railway station two weeks before Christmas. The man who possessed such an enviable combination of shoulders and coat would never be stamping his feet on these chilled cobblestones beside the cooling steam engine. He would not be looking about irritably for a porter. No, Broderick Carlyle’s greatcoat must even now be hanging in the cloakroom of one of his exclusive gentlemen’s clubs on the Strand or else flowing behind him as he rode one of his equally well-turned-out horses in London’s fashionable parks. Or else, as Candida had spent the last year trying not to imagine, tossed over some strange sofa or bedpost.

Safe in London, Broderick Carlyle and his greatcoat would never learn that, though genial, porters in this little patch of the English southern coast did not hurry to collect a first-class passenger’s luggage. They did not compete with one another, as they did in London, for a tossed tuppence. Probably because there was only one of them. And that sprightly lad with the grey beard was busy unloading Candida’s own trunks and hatboxes. There were quite a few of them. She needed extra armour for this visit.

God, was there any place on earth colder than an abandoned railway platform? Candida pulled up the collar of her new winter coat in a forlorn attempt to block the chill. Made of modish alpaca wool, the deep-green coat fitted tightly all the way through her hips, and she could scarcely move the garment an inch in any direction. Usually, she enjoyed showing off her figure, when properly corseted of course. What was the point of forgoing treats otherwise? But, looking at the rippling folds of the gentleman’s greatcoat, she suddenly wished she might have thick folds of fabric to wrap and swirl about her.

As if sensing her desire, the man with the coat and the shoulders pivoted towards her on his impractical half boots of shining patent leather. The swirl revealed a number of disquieting facts. A flash of telltale crimson lined his unbuttoned greatcoat, a distinctive suit of monochrome check visible beneath the coat’s flowing heft. His unforgettable dark eyes were wary. The man did not know the Devonshire countryside, but unfortunately, Candida knew him.

No. No, no, no! It was bad enough that she had alighted at Kingsbridge Station for the first time in a decade. Fate wouldn’t force her to face two ghosts from her past simultaneously, would it? She was already braced against the gentle assault on the senses from the invigorating countryside air of her girlhood. The inimitable blend of sea-perfumed, winter-fresh air blew up the estuary from the English Channel. Was she now going to be forced to face her most adult of indulgences at the same time? Apparently, yes. There, not a dozen paces away, was the man with whom she’d foolishly tried to have a discreet affair last year. At least, it was supposed to have been discreet.

There was no time for Candida to upbraid herself for the umpteenth time for that disastrous attempt at playing the merry widow. The reason for her self-inflicted defeat was stalking towards her.

“My dear Mrs Damerell.” Broderick Carlyle cut her a leisurely bow, his dark hair sliding over his brow. “I thought I had forsaken all the delights of Town when I recklessly boarded this somnambulant train. But here I see we have imported into this rough wilderness one of Society’s best blooms.”

Candida did not much care for his allusion to her hothouse beauty. Not when she was so close to the coast’s wild magnificence. But she kept the smile on her face and inclined her head. “You do me too much credit, sir. Devon doesn’t need my adornment. But I’m sure the county is honoured to have lured one of London’s great clubmen out of the metropolis.”

This had been their pattern for the past year whenever they had accidentally met. They would smile and exchange quips—and then she would go home and seek out the dark meanings behind Broderick’s artful compliments.

He laughed in that low, insinuating way only she seemed to ever notice. “No mean feat, luring me from the safety of civilization in wintertime. But it’s admiration of Lady Belleville that brings me here. Well”—he winked—“admiration mixed with a touch of fear.”

“Sorry. Did you say Lady Bellville asked you to come to Kingsbridge?” A coincidence? Her rapidly accelerating heartbeat disagreed.

“Yes. It seems she has friends in these parts. You know the type of country gentry, titled but hopelessly out of step. Anyway, there’s an unmarried daughter of the house, and I suppose they’re making one last attempt to prevent her from going on the shelf.”

Candida forced her fingers to relax at his dismissive appraisal of the Luscombes and especially of Sophie Luscombe as some desperate spinster. Broderick didn’t know her. Or that Candida did. Or she had. Sophie wouldn’t be the same exuberant, courageous girl Candida had last seen on her own wedding day a decade ago. Life had a way of making girls like that grow down rather than up. Candida made her tone as droll as his. “And you’ve arrived with the feather duster to chase away the cobwebs?”

“I would never phrase it in quite such a, ah, ticklish way”—another impudent wink—“but that’s the sum of it. Accustom the girl to being around one of London’s great clubmen and then escort her up to Town in a fortnight for the masquerade ball.”

Candida’s worst fears were confirmed. She was about to spend two weeks in the countryside with Broderick Carlyle. At Christmastime.

She pretended to scan the lonely platform for the porter’s progress while her calculating brain raced. Why was this happening? Had Lady Belleville guessed at their affair? Was this some sort of arcane punishment? The woman was one of Society’s most formidable and enduring fixtures. Her entertainments during the Season could make or break most members of Society, Candida included, which was why she dared not demure from performing even this favour. Even Lady Belleville’s annual Christmas Eve masquerade, a whimsical addition to the carefully regimented social calendar, was indulged with only hushed slander.

When she felt fully in command of herself, Candida turned back to her companion. “I’m surprised anyone would allow an unmarried country girl to be alone with such a practiced sophisticate as you, sir.” Though the Sophie Luscombe she remembered had always been more interested in stealing away on horseback than stealing kisses with handsome youths.

Broderick sighed theatrically. “I’ve learnt of late the limits of my charms with the fairer sex, Mrs Damerell.” Was that a reference to her own dismissal of him? “Yet even if I’ve a fraction of my fascination left, the girl’s parents need not worry. There will be another lady to act as chaperone.”

“Fancy that. I wonder where they will find another suitable Society chaperone?” Candida tried to keep her voice light.

Broderick’s clever lips twitched, as if she were being amusing rather than caustic. “So…Lady Belleville prevailed on you too?” He rubbed his long-fingered, leather-covered hands together in a way that had nothing to do with restoring circulation. “There’s a turn up for the books.”

Damn, did anything surprise this man? She rated her own ability at camouflage as distinctly above average, but even her carefully arched eyebrows had doubtless moved involuntarily in response to the revelations delivered on the Kingsbridge station platform.

The grey-bearded porter thankfully chose that moment to puff over. “Carriage’s all loaded up, milady. Driver says there’s hot bricks for your feet and everything.”

Her heart softened even as her frozen feet rejoiced. Who was responsible for the thoughtful gesture? All the Luscombes were invariably kind, but not the most attentive to detail. Maybe it was one of the staff. “Thank you. It’s not above three miles to the Hall,” Candida replied, “but the bricks will be a welcome addition all the same.”

The porter flattened his mouth regretfully. “There’s only one, I’m afraid.”

Broderick chucked. “What? One hot brick?”

“Carriage, sir. Where’d you want to be going then?”

“I’m also bound for Luscombe Hall”—he shot a hasty look at Candida—“but I’ll find another conveyance. It’s no bother.”

See, the man was always polite in public. Polite with a fashionable edge of boredom. How was she to know he would become so ardent, so demanding, once in private? And yet, after their few months of clandestine meetings, he’d wanted her to give up everything. Everything! Her home, her position in Society…all to marry a bohemian barrister. Very well, he was rich; how else could he afford to be so idle? But while the glossy, glib Broderick Carlyle made an agreeable dinner guest in Mayfair, he was the very opposite of the solid, marriage-minded gentleman she would counsel any young debutant to settle upon.

The porter scratched his well-covered chin doubtfully. “Not so many coaches for hire these days. Commercial gents now use the railways and stay to the towns. And the gentry that don’t live in these here parts mostly come in summertime.”

Wonderful. She must crush into the Luscombes’ carriage with Broderick or appear an absolute harpy. “I am only too happy to share the carriage, Mr Carlyle.” Candida lowered her voice to a murmur. “But not the bricks.”

His low laugh followed her into the carriage.

*

Devon in early winter, still bare of snow, was not the picture-perfect countryside sought out by city dwellers. But then, Candida had not always been a fair-weather urbanite. As her feet soaked up the heat of the bricks, her tingling nose caught the first hint of salt air through the open window of the carriage. This. She’d given up all this. Not only the Luscombes, the open-hearted neighbours who took pity on her after her home broke up. She’d given up this little stretch of coast with its marshy estuary, steeply banked farmers’ fields, and contorted coastal trees. The patch of earth she’d known her whole life.

“You’re craning your neck out the window like an excited schoolchild on a seaside holiday.” Broderick was smiling.

She didn’t dare look at him, but there was a warmth in his voice she hadn’t heard in a long time. Her attempt to forestall conversation with Broderick in the intimate confines of the carriage by staring out the window wasn’t working. And, confound him, she wasn’t craning. That would distort the good posture she always maintained. Poise was what had first distinguished Candida as a girl who could rise from the ranks of impoverished country gentry to one of Society’s most sought-after hostesses.

“You should be practising enthusiasm, Broderick. You accepted the Luscombes’ invitation for a fortnight at Christmastime. Therefore, you must look the part of a beaming reveller.” Another sigh, this one heartfelt enough that Candida shot a glance at him. “What?”

His inconveniently handsome face looked pained. “I know it’s that time of year and all, but I won’t really be expected to play some jolly uncle—will I?”

How delicious. The most urbane gentleman in London was discomforted. “Never tell me you cannot give the good folk of Devon a passable performance of the cheerful holiday guest.”

“That is precisely the problem,” Broderick muttered. “The cheer. Everyone’s so determinedly jolly that one feels a perfect ass imitating them. And then there are the games. People are high-spirited enough to attempt something as truly horrendous as Blind Man’s Bluff or Pin the Tail. And that’s just the parlour.” He squinted out the window with manifest distrust. “Don’t get me started on the outdoor games. We’re in the country, where there is a damnable amount of the outdoors too.”

Candida didn’t laugh. Not out of consideration for the man opposite, who somehow made even petulance attractive, but because laughter showed her teeth. “Very true. I daresay there will be daily trips out to collect greenery. Probably with sleds.”

His sleepy dark eyes widened with unmistakable horror. “Nonsense. There’s no snow. Thank god I’m never so foolhardy as to visit my family up North this time of year, or else I might be forced to slosh about in the stuff all in the name of fun. I had quite enough of that roughhousing in my own childhood, thank you.”

An image of a shrieking snowball fight with the Luscombe children sailed into her chest with surprising force. “Devon does sometimes get snow for Christmas, you know. It did several times when I was a girl.”

Broderick looked suitably alarmed. “Dear god, Candida. Don’t tell me you’ve done one of these country Christmases before?”

“You know perfectly well my family had their country house here.” The Kendalls had very little else besides, but the last thing she wanted was to underscore her sad associations with the place now that she was back.

Broderick gestured out the window. “I knew you had some connection to the West Country, but I didn’t realise it was precisely here. Wait, do you know the Luscombes? I mean, as more than Lady Belleville’s friends? I need to know if I’m walking into some sort of emotional childhood reunion on top of everything else.”

Candida wished she could reassure herself of the same thing. Oh, she’d sent cards at the holidays and responded with gracious thanks to all Lady Luscombe’s invitations. With thanks, and with regrets. The requests had eventually become little more than rote reiterations of Candida being “always welcome, my dear, of course.” Would the family truly be glad to see her after all this time? Did she even want them to be happy? Or would indifference prove that she’d been right to start her life fresh in London?

She was saved from answering Broderick’s question by their arrival. “Oh look, there is Luscombe Hall at last.” It was entirely unchanged. How was that possible? “It… Is it not a fine example of the late Georgians?”

Broderick gave another of his amused chuckles, then joined her in a genteel peer out the open window. The small, manufactured woods that guarded the western approach to the hall had dissolved. They were suddenly at close quarters with their home for the next two weeks. And Candida’s second home for the first half of her life.

“Such pleasing symmetry,” Broderick murmured, too close to her ear. “A very fine example indeed. And the whole household knows it apparently. Why else would they all stand about in front of the property staring at it?”

If all the prosperous, procreating Luscombes stood outside, the carriage would scarcely be able to drive to the house. But Broderick could discover that for himself.

“Some of the staff are waiting to give us a proper welcome, I suppose,” she said. “Look, even some members of the family have come out.”

“Please don’t tell me that tall young woman in blue is of the nobility. She’s not even wearing a hat.”

Nor was she wearing a bustle. But Candida would recognise that hands-on-hips stance in Piccadilly Circus, let alone in front of Luscombe Hall. Sophie.

Candida attempted to scrutinise how the years had changed the young woman without scrunching her face unattractively. “Now a spinster of twenty-seven, Sophie was younger than Candida and her closest sibling, Basil Luscombe, by five years. Despite having four older brothers and sisters, Sophie had never been content with the role of a tagalong. She struck out on her own, or with an equine companion, whenever she could escape her already lax guardians. She seemed wholly unconscious of any expectations beyond her own. Candida, always so very aware of her family’s diminishing status, had secretly envied all their secure neighbour’s children. But she’d viewed Sophie’s instinctive liberty with something close to wonderment.

She cleared her throat. “I believe that is Lady Sophia Luscombe herself.”

They jointly studied the reason for their visit in silence.

“Hmmm,” Broderick mused, “she’s comely enough, in a countrified manner. That should make our job of polishing her up for the marriage mart a bit easier.”

For the first, and hopefully last, time on this fool’s errand of a Christmas visit, Candida had to agree. “Yes, it certainly helps to have a bit of personal attraction in these cases.”

Broderick was the first to break their reverie. “Although it’s not enough. A man might ask a pretty girl to dance, but he’ll hardly propose if she galumphs through the quadrille like a barefoot bumpkin.”

“You are an intolerable snob, Broderick,” she chided without moving her smiling lips. They were close enough now for Sophie and the staff to see their faces. The delegation moved to intercept the carriage, headed by Sophie. Her gown was the same colour as her dark-blue Luscombe eyes, and the escaped tendrils of her dark hair whipped against her frost-pink cheeks.

“Me?” He lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “I wasn’t the one who forbade a woman attending my at-homes because she passed the sugar tongs the wrong way.”

“Thank you for the reminder. I am a hopeless rule-follower. It doesn’t matter that that poisonous woman was purposefully slighting her paid companion by sending the tea service the opposite way, that she never ceases—ow!” Candida’s head collided painfully with Broderick’s skull as the carriage crunched to a sudden halt in the centre of the circular drive.

“God, are you are right?” His hand was on her cheek, his dark eyes fully open for once. And very, very focussed. She fought back the urge to slap away his familiar grasp before she did something even worse, such as press into it. Their scene was now playing out before an approaching welcome committee. She eased back.

Broderick quickly retreated to his side of the carriage. “Insufferable country drivers seeking to imitate some flash St James coachman.”

Candida pressed surreptitiously at the corners of her mouth to check she was still smiling as their dashing coachman wrenched the carriage door open. He unfolded the steps with a flourish, and Candida accepted his hand and descended. One, two, three. There. She’d set foot on Luscombe land for the first time in a decade, and the world had not ended.

“Hello! Welcome back.” Sophie Luscombe bounced over, her hand extended—no glove—before snatching it back and treating the new arrivals to a swift curtsy. “We’re delighted you’ll be spending the holidays with us, Candida…sorry, Mrs Damerell.” Sophie gave a half laugh at her married name that Candida vaguely remembered from her first year after relinquishing the title of Miss Kendall. “Mother’s particularly pleased you’re here.”

“Lady Sophia.” Candida made a graceful dip as she surveyed the young woman from under her lashes. “It’s wonderful to see you as well. It has been too long.” Long enough for the irrepressible, long-limbed girl in her memory to have grown into a very handsome woman in her late twenties. “I always think of your family with such fondness.” Which was the least she could do after all they had done for her. “The pleasure is entirely—”

“Didi!”

The cry from the door to Luscombe Hall must have been audible from Kingsbridge. Charlie? God it was her. The light-coloured frocks of a marriageable miss had long been replaced with a handsome high-necked gown, but there was no mistaking her cheerful voice. Candida snapped her jaw shut and tried to look as if she was entirely accustomed to being greeted with such informality. She had time for this operation because Charlie had paused to exhort the household. “Come on, Mother! Didi’s here at last. Where’s Badger?”

“It seems as if we are getting quite the welcome.” Broderick’s silky voice sounded close behind her ear. “Or should I say you are getting a rousing reception, Didi.”

There was no time to remind the impossible man that his intimates from school called him Brodie or worse. A full-fledged party was emerging from the Hall, led by a lady whose lace house-cap strings fluttered in the chill wind and whose old-fashioned full skirt swirled about her in her haste.

“I did tell you the family was very pleased when they learnt you were coming,” Sophie Luscombe said with a gesture to the group and the same awkward half laugh. “They might be a bit overwhelming at first, but everything will be exceedingly comfortable when the excitement settles down.”

Candida patted the young woman on the shoulder, a shapely shoulder that was warm despite her lack of a coat. “Lady Sophia, please don’t apologise. If anyone has the right to be as informal with me as they wish, it is your dear mama and your siblings.” Which was one reason she hadn’t visited.

“I suppose,” Sophie shot an apprehensive look at her approaching mother. “Although, you will find a good many changes at the Hall.”

“I already have. I scarce recognised you, Lady Sophia.” Not true in the slightest. “You look quite elegant.” Again, not strictly true, but Sophie certainly looked very pretty.

Sophie blushed immoderately up to her dark hairline. “That’s not quite what I meant, although, yes, I have…dressed. Only that the family has rather expanded in the last decade.”

True. Candida had spotted her old playmate Basil, Badger to his family, dash out the door and then pivot to run back in and collect his hat. But she didn’t recognise half of the people descending upon her. Or a quarter, if one counted children as people. There was an alarming number of them. But there was never any question as to the leader of the party.

“My dear, you’re here at last.” Lady Luscombe seized both Candida’s hands and held her out at inspection length. “And as gorgeous as ever.”

“Lady Luscombe, it has been an age. But you would never think it to look at you.” It was true. Lady Luscombe was a comely woman of middle years when Candida left the neighbourhood as a bride. And she was one still, her hair more silvered than gold, but her smiling deep-blue eyes quite as vivid.

With an unexpected pull, Lady Luscombe drew her into a tight hug. “Welcome home, my dear.”

Released but unable to speak for a minute, Candida found her hand in Charlie’s warm one. Charlie looked, well, rather like her mother had when they were both young girls. The effect was only accentuated by a cluster of children surrounding her, one twined shyly around her waist.

“Darling Didi.” Charlie leaned over her intervening brood and kissed Candida on both cheeks. Not air kisses. “I simply cannot believe you’re here at last. We will have such fun.” She reached down to ruffle the hair of the attached creature. “Say hello to Mama’s dear childhood friend, poppet.”

The strange child looked up at her with their familiar Luscombe features. “Hullo, ma’am.”

Charlie laughed. “Do you hear that? She’s not a ‘ma’am’. She’s your Aunt Didi.”

Broderick’s low chuckle sounded at her back. He was clearly enjoying this display. There was no time to worry how the Luscombes’ informality would affect their careful post-separation exchanges.

Basil was leaning his long frame over his sister to give Candida a smacking kiss on one cheek, and Charlie was pushing forward a man with ginger whiskers whom Candida vaguely recalled seeing in the wedding vestry beside her friend before her own debut in Town. Then there were the children. Only six in total. Why did they seem so numerous? She carefully noted their names. She was good with names. That business done, it was time to do what she did best: formalities.

Candida drew aside to display to the company the best-dressed man ever to wander into Devonshire. “Lady Luscombe, I have the honour of introducing your family to Mr Broderick Carlyle.”

The lady of the house was all smiles as she graciously inclined her head. Was it too much to hope that she would pull their London visitor into a hug too? The look on Broderick’s complacent face would be priceless. “Welcome to Luscombe Hall, sir. The earl was much disappointed not to be here to greet you in person, but he was obliged to go to the harbour on business.”

“The earl is much involved in his shipping concerns out of Salcombe, Mr Carlyle,” Candida explained. “Doubtless, he would be happy to give you a tour of the harbour.”

Basil laughed. “And happy to crack open a case and sample the rum himself, no doubt!”

Candida persisted with the introductions. “Mr Steven Holt and his wife, Lady Charlotte Holt, and their charming children. Mr Carlyle is originally a northerner like yourself, Mr Holt, so you will be able to commiserate together about our little West Country eccentricities. Next, we have Lord Basil Luscombe, and his two fine sons. Lord Basil plays a charming fiddle and has a fine tenor voice besides. With you on the piano, I expect you two to lead us in the carolling.” She sent Broderick a saccharine smile.

Lady Luscombe clapped her hands. “Oh, how delightful. I will ask the tuner to come in and make sure everything is in perfect order.”

Charlie poked her brother in the ribs. “Tenor? Badger’s lucky to be in baritone range these days with the amount he smokes.”

Basil returned her evil grin. “What can I say? I was corrupted by my elder sister before I had a chance.” Charlie was Candida and Basil’s elder by two years, and she had always made the most of it. “And how fortunate that I was because now I’m able to offer Mr Carlyle one of my fine—” He patted his coat pockets. “Where in blazes is my cigarette case?”

“Heavens, Basil. Language,” admonished his mother.

“You’ve left it in the kitchen with your walking stick and bag, Papa.” The fair-haired child who spoke had the long-suffering tone Candida remembered from her own days of helping Basil retain his possessions. She snuck a look at how Broderick was reacting to this colourful introduction, but he was sleepily smiling at the ensemble in that annoyingly unflappable way of his. She only had one more introduction to make and then might retire to her assigned room to ‘refresh’ from her journey.

Candida reached through the crowd to gently pull Sophie forward from where the young woman stood decorously on the outskirts of the group. Really, Sophie was the only person who’d shown any restraint thus far. Which was strange. For if ever there had been a young lady guilty of arriving for afternoon tea direct from the stables, it was that lady now standing demurely in her cerulean gown. Candida remembered it now. Young Sophie would kick off her riding boots at the door of the Orangery and then flop on the sofa, arms and legs akimbo, complaining she was so famished she would die unless someone fed her. A sibling could usually be prevailed upon to chuck a rock bun at her head.

She always caught it.

“And finally, may I present Lady Sophia Luscombe. She’s a very fine equestrienne, Mr Carlyle, and I’m sure she will be delighted to show you all the best coastal rides. You may not know, Lady Sophia, but Mr Carlyle here is considered quite an authority on horseflesh in the London clubs.” Probably because the dilettante did little else with his considerable leisure time than hang about such places.

Broderick took the tips of Sophie’s fingers in his smooth kidskin grip and bowed over the hand with great ceremony.

“Lady Sophia, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance—” Whatever practiced charms Broderick had ready were arrested by the young woman’s sudden recoil.

“You!” Sophie snatched her hand back as if stung.

Broderick’s eyes widened fractionally with horrified recognition, but then his bland mask was back in place. “I beg your pardon?” The man was clearly determined to brazen it out. Good luck with that.

“You’re the reckless fool who spooked Stavros in Richmond Park last year!”

“I’m not sure quite what you recall, Lady Sophia, but—”

“Oh, you are going to deny our meeting, are you?” Sophie’s hands were on her shapely hips, and her expression was thunderous. “Or is such abominable behaviour so common with you, Mr Carlyle, that you cannot recall a single incident?”

“Lady Sophia, perhaps you might allow me—”

“Mother, this man may be welcome at Luscombe Hall, but he is not allowed anywhere near my stables!”

Candida stared, along with the rest of the company, at Sophie’s stiff and retreating back. Her Christmas chaperoning duties were off to an even worse start than she feared.