Read A Christmas Courtship Online
Authors: Jeannie Machin
A Christmas Courtship
RIGHT FROM WRONG
Blanche had grown up in Amberley Court. But now the manor belonged to the arrogant Sir Edmund Brandon. It was wrong for Blanche to feel so happily at home in it again.
Sir Edmund himself just as definitely belonged to the ravishing Lady Athena Hetherington, the toast of London society, and Brandon’s bride-to-be. It was very wrong for Blanche to feel her icy feelings toward him melting as she stood alone with him in the drawing room.
Blanche knew the line between right and wrong. How, then, did she find herself so fearfully far on the wrong side of it…?
Courtship
Jeannie Machin
The premises of Mr William Gilbey, the city of Gloucester’s finest and most expensive jeweler, stood in the shadow of the cathedral, on the end of a fine row of medieval houses that faced the green. Mr Gilbey was an old man now, but still so renowned for the quality of his work that he numbered the foremost names in the county among his patrons, especially just before Christmas, when gifts of gold and jewels were required. The Dukes of Beaufort and Norfolk came to him all year round for silver plates and presentation goblets, but at Christmas they came for costly presents to give to the ladies in the family. Many an exquisite piece of jewelry had been fashioned in the little workshop behind the bow-windowed shop, and Mr Gilbey could even boast of having made the mayor of Gloucester’s chain of office.
But, prosperous as the jeweler was, it was with some surprise that on a particularly cold Friday afternoon just over a week before the Christmas of 1808, when the mellow sound of the cathedral choir rehearsing carols drifted on the icy air, he heard the distinctive tinkle of the shop bell. It would soon be dark, the bitter weather had driven most folk home to the warmth of their hearths, and yet someone had called? Who could it possibly be?
Putting down the silver cup he’d been engraving for the Duke of Norfolk, he hastened out of the fire-lit workshop. He was a wiry little man, prone to feel the cold, and thus he paused for a moment to pull his shawl more closely around his thin
shoulders
; but if his bones felt brittle these days, his mind was as nimble as ever, and behind his spectacles his eyes were as sharp
and bright as a sparrow’s. There was a mercenary gleam in those eyes now as he pondered the possibility of a late and therefore profitable order for the festive season.
A young woman was waiting in the gloomy shop, where only a little light penetrated the thick panes of the bow window, and there the only concession to the festivity of
yuletide
was a large bunch of holly in a silver punch bowl on the counter. The hood of her once fashionable cloak was raised to protect her from the cold, casting her face in shadow, but he knew her straight-away, and without a word he went back into the workshop, returning in a moment or so with a folded square of purple, velvet.
He hesitated before placing it on the counter. ‘I trust you’ll be well pleased with the repair, Miss Amberley, but you must understand that with Christmas almost upon us, I had to fit the work in among all my other orders.’
‘I do understand, Mr Gilbey, and I’m sure the work will be excellent. Your skill has long been known to my family.’ Her voice was attractively soft and refined, without being affected.
He smiled, but behind the smile he was thinking that it had been two long years now since Blanche Amberley or any of her family had last graced his premises. Two years ago, in the autumn of 1806, her father, Lionel Amberley, had learned that his venture into stocks and shares had been more than
disastrous
, and that as a consequence he’d lost virtually everything. From being a prominent Gloucestershire family, included on every guest list of note, they’d been reduced to insignificance, forfeiting their beautiful Tudor country house in Amberley St Mary, four miles south of Gloucester, and now living instead in a cottage that looked directly toward the armorial gates of their former residence. Lionel Amberley’s health had been broken by the catastrophe that he knew was entirely of his own doing, and his son, Jonathan, once one of the county’s most eligible young men, was now a junior officer in the King’s West Gloucestershire Regiment, stationed in nearby Cheltenham. Blanche herself had ceased to be a sought-after heiress besieged by hopeful suitors; now she was expected to become an old maid.
Blanche had no idea of his thoughts as she waited for him to put the folded velvet on the counter before her. She tossed her hood back and began to tease off her gloves, shivering a little because the shop was cold. The weather was particularly bitter this year, and everyone expected snow before Christmas.
As always, her loveliness took him by fresh surprise. The hood had loosened the pins holding up her mane of
silverblonde
curls so that it tumbled down over her shoulders,
shining
like spun metal in the gloom. Her delicately boned face was heart-shaped and sweetly formed, with a pale, clear complexion and large, expressive gray eyes. Beneath the cloak he knew that her figure was slender and feminine, perfect for the fashionable clothes she’d once worn with such style and flair. She was twenty-three years old, as gloriously lovely as ever, but no longer dressed
à la mode,
for although her wardrobe had been the thing in 1806, it was sadly out of date two years later, and there wasn’t a guest list that now included the name of Miss Blanche Amberley. She faced a quiet Christmas, with no invitations, and she wouldn’t even have a gown suitable enough for the yuletide subscription ball at the assembly rooms.
His contemplative gaze was beginning to make Blanche feel uncomfortable, and she gave him a rather cool glance. ‘Might I see the repair, Mr Gilbey?’
Without further ado he placed the velvet on the counter, and she quickly unfolded it, gazing down at the glittering piece of jewelry that was known as the Amberley pendant. It was as big as a man’s palm, and made of gold studded with pearls from the Orient and orange-red balas rubies from Afghanistan, and it lay on the bed of purple velvet with its heavy chain coiled around it like a snake. There were few finer examples of sixteenth-century jewelry in the land, and even fewer that could be positively traced back to Queen Elizabeth herself, who was shown wearing it in a portrait that still hung in the great hall at Amberley Court.
Blanche picked the pendant up, examining the ring through which the chain passed, for that was what had been damaged when she’d dropped it on the floor of the bedroom. As Mr Gilbey had promised when she’d taken the pendant to him the week before, it was impossible to tell now that the ring had ever
been damaged. A flood of relief passed through her, for now her father need never know that anything had befallen the only item of value still in the family’s possession. She could wear it as always on Christmas Day, with her green velvet gown, and her moment of carelessness need never be known.
She gazed down at the pendant. It was her family’s security now, there to be sold should the need ever arise, but its value to them went beyond mere price, for it was part of their history, too precious to be sold unless the circumstances were very dire indeed.
The jeweler watched her carefully. The pendant was much coveted, and he knew several very wealthy patrons, especially the Duke of Beaufort, who would dearly have liked to possess it. The Amberleys’ determination to cling to this sole reminder of their privileged past was well known, but equally as well known was their present parlous situation, which always gave rise to the discreet hope that they might be persuaded after all to part with their treasure. With Christmas so close, perhaps the time was ripe. Mr Gilbey’s bright eyes were sly behind his spectacles, for if anyone was going to prise the pendant away from its owners, that person was he. He’d offered for it before and been turned down, but he intended to repeat the offer again and again until they gave in.
He leaned forward attentively. ‘Is everything in order, Miss Amberley?’
‘It is indeed, sir,’ she replied, replacing the pendant on its bed of velvet. ‘How much will that be?’
Smiling a little, he reached beneath the counter and took out a bill which he slid across toward her. It was a deliberately inflated bill, but he felt no conscience whatsoever.
Blanche stared at the paper in dismay. ‘Surely there’s some mistake….’
‘Gold is very costly, Miss Ambereley, and with Christmas only days away, I’ve got a great deal to complete. Besides, the repair wasn’t easy.’
‘That isn’t what you said a week ago, sir, nor did you
particularly
mention the imminence of Christmas as being a
consideration
.’ Her big gray eyes rested accusingly on him. ‘Can’t you
please reconsider, Mr Gilbey? My allowance is very small, and I simply haven’t the means to….’
‘There is a simple way of avoiding all this awkwardness, Miss Amberley,’ he interrupted smoothly. ‘A month or so ago I offered you the princely sum of eight hundred and fifty guineas for the pendant, and your father turned me down, but the offer still stands.’
‘The pendant isn’t for sale, sir.’
‘No one in Gloucestershire would offer more.’
‘Possibly not, but….’
‘It’s a firm offer, Miss Amberley. Eight hundred and fifty guineas, there for the taking. All you have to do is agree.’ ‘The pendant is not for sale,’ she said again.
His lips twisted irritatedly, and he tapped the bill with a bony finger. ‘Then I have to insist upon this figure,’ he said firmly.
It meant parting with practically all that was left of her
six-monthly
allowance, which was the very last thing she wished to do with all her Christmas presents still to purchase, but she really didn’t have much choice. With a sigh she took her reticule from her wrist, loosened the drawstring, and took out her little purse. Without a word she counted out the coins, then replaced the purse in the reticule, together with the refolded velvet containing the pendant.
Mr Gilbey still felt there was time to persuade her, and he leaned forward again. ‘Is there no way in which I may change your mind, Miss Amberley? If you and your father wish to
celebrate
yuletide more comfortably than you have for the past two years….’
‘You are a scoundrel, sir, a wretch who is utterly without conscience,’ she said, pulling on her gloves and raising her hood. ‘But scoundrel or not, I still have sufficient charity to wish you the compliments of the season.’
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘And the compliments of the season to you, Miss Amberley,’ he muttered.
The shop bell tinkled, and a breath of icy winter air swept in as she left. She paused outside to adjust her hood, and then hurried quickly across the green toward the little alley that led into Westgate Street, one of Gloucester’s main shopping streets.
Mr Gilbey sighed, going around the corner to stand by the window, watching her. A light breeze had begun to stir, lifting the hem of her cloak to reveal the simple beige woolen gown she wore beneath. His gaze lingered on her neat little ankle boots, once so very modish with their pointed toes. Rounded toes were all the rage now, and even the shade of brown was out of date. Poor little Blanche, from being fashionable in everything, she was now not fashionable at all.
The jeweler continued to watch her. What must it be like to be the mistress of a mere cottage, with a staff of two, when once she’d been the chatelaine of Amberley Court, one of the loveliest and most historic mansions in the county? Each time she looked out of a window, she gazed at the gates of her former home, and even the name of the village was a reminder of all that had gone. Had such ill fortune made her bitter?
He sighed, aware of a belated pang of conscience, for he knew it had ill become him to pressure her as he just had, but a man either had an eye to the main chance or he did not, and William Gilbey was nothing if not a man of business.
As Blanche vanished into the alley, where lamps were already being lit, the jeweler continued to gaze after her,
thinking
that at least until now she’d been spared the sight of the new owner of Amberley Court coming and going through those famous armorial gates. Sir Edmund Brandon, one of the youngest and most brilliant major-generals in the army, had chosen not to reside in his new country property for the past two years, preferring the diversions of London or the
excitement
of his military career, but just over a week before he’d suddenly arrived from the capital. He was thirty-two years old, considered to be devastatingly handsome, although the jeweler could not really comment upon the views of the ladies, and he was possessed of the sort of charm that drew both women and men to him like pins to a magnet. Sir Edmund wasn’t the darling of London society just on account of his looks and charms, however, for he was also a gallant hero, having proved himself at the battle of Vimiero in August, when his
conspicuous
gallantry had not only saved many of his men from ambush, but had also assisted a great deal toward the British
victory against Bonaparte’s French. The war was centered mostly in Spain now, and Vimiero had been won by the
brilliance
of Sir Arthur Wellesley, the new young commander, but Sir Arthur had had to forfeit the able assistance of his
right-hand
man, Sir Edmund, who had had to be sent home to England to recover from his wounds. At first Sir Edmund had resumed residence in his Conduit Street town house, but then, quite suddenly, he’d chosen to come to Gloucestershire and the house he’d neglected for two long years. It was also being whispered that he was about to take a wife, although no one knew that for certain.
With another sigh, the jeweler turned away from the window, hesitating for a moment before pushing the bolts across the shop door and then lowering the blind. It was most unlikely that anyone else would call now, and he had no intention of being drawn away from his warm workshop again. His glance fell on the bunch of holly. The only good thing about Christmas was the increase in trade he always enjoyed – oh, and perhaps the fine fat goose his sister always cooked.
Pulling his shawl around his shoulders again, he went through into the workshop, warming his hands at the fire for a while before resuming his seat before the Duke of Norfolk’s silver cup. His thoughts returned to Blanche, for, astonishingly, her name had been the subject of some discreet whispering in recent weeks. For two long years her name hadn’t been linked romantically with anyone, but now, out of the blue, it was rumored that she had been secretly seeing a certain Mr Antony Mortimer, the son and heir of Gloucester’s most prominent and ruthless banker, Clement Mortimer. Clement was an ambitious man, with an eye on Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, and to this end was always endeavoring to curry favor with the Duke of Norfolk, whose patronage was necessary. Very few people in Gloucester liked Clement, and his son seemed set to follow in the paternal footsteps. Or at least … Mr Gilbey drew a long breath, contemplating Antony for a moment. He’d been given a good education, and on the surface was a gentleman, good-looking, courteous, capable of an engaging warmth, but there was something about him which William Gilbey simply
didn’t care for. Antony hadn’t been detected behaving with his father’s ruthlessness, but neither had he been heard to utter disapproval of Clement’s methods, which made him something of a puzzle. Was he a gentleman, or a knave? William Gilbey smiled a little ruefully, recalling his own somewhat ruthless actions of a moment or so before. Well, business was business, and it was one thing to squeeze someone to sell for a good price, quite another to utterly ruin them in order to achieve one’s ends, and Mortimer’s Bank had been responsible for quite a number of unnecessary bankruptcies.