Christmas Betrothals. Sophia James

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      ‘Really.’ Ellie turned to look back and Lillian wished that she would not.

      ‘Who would he fight?’

      ‘The gambling tables have their own complications.’ John was quick to answer his sister’s question. ‘Your cousin, by the way, Lillian, is numbered amongst those who have had more than a light dab at the faces of others.’

      ‘Daniel?’ Ellie questioned, grimacing at the name. ‘But he dresses far too well to fight.’

      Despite herself Lillian laughed at the sheer absurdity of her friend’s statement as they made their way into Oxford Street.

      ‘I can well see why Jennifer Parker is so besotted. Have you ever seen a more dangerous-looking man than Lucas Clairmont?’

      When John frowned heavily, they decided that it was prudent to drop the subject altogether.

      Christmas decorations were beginning to appear in more of the shops and a child and an elderly woman stood by the roadside selling bunches of mistletoe from a barrow.

      Ellie rushed over dragging Lillian with her, carefully separating the foliage until she found a piece that she wanted.

      ‘They say if you kiss a man under mistletoe you will find your one true love. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Perhaps you might kiss my brother? Here, Lillian, I will buy a sprig for you.’

      Eleanor gave the woman some money and was handed two brown parcels, the greenery contained in thick paper and string. As they went to leave a young couple came up to the barrow. They were not well-to-do or dressed in anything near the latest of fashion, but when the man held the mistletoe up to the woman there was something in their eyes that simply transfixed Lillian.

      Laughter and warmth and a shining intensity that was bewitching! She saw love in the way their hands brushed close as he handed her the packet and in the breathless smile the woman gave back to him as she received her gift. Only them in the world, only the small circle of their joy and happiness, for the bliss between them was tangible to everyone that watched.

      Yearning overcame Lillian. Yearning for what she had just seen, the mistletoe a reminder of what she had never found and would probably never have. She glanced at John, who was castigating his sister for wasting her money on such frippery and a heavy sadness settled over her.

      Christmas with its hope and promise had a way of undermining rationality and logic, replacing it with this mistletoe magic and a great dollop of hunger for something completely untenable.

      ‘I do hope you are not swayed by my sister’s nonsense, too?’ John said, and with the shake of her head Lillian placed the brown packet in her bag and averted her eyes from the couple now walking on the other side of the street.

       Chapter Six

      Her cousin Daniel was in the library the next morning when she went down to find again the book on the Americas and he did not look pleased.

      ‘Lillian. It has been a while since we have talked.’ His face was marked by the underlying anger she had got used to seeing there.

      For the past few years Daniel had been away from England and the ease of conversation that they had at one time had was now replaced by distance. Some other more nebulous wildness was also evident.

      ‘Does my father know that you are here?’

      ‘Yes. He is just retrieving a document that my mother has asked me to find for her.’

      ‘I see.’

      He flipped at the pages of the book on America as it lay open on the table next to him. ‘It’s a big land. I was there on the east coast. Washington, mainly, and New York.’

      ‘Is that where you met Mr Clairmont?’

      He frowned and then realisation dawned. ‘Ah, you saw us the other night at the Lenningtons’.’

      ‘I met him in the street yesterday with Hawkhurst. He had the appearance of being in another fight and I thought perhaps—’ But he did not let her finish!

      ‘Stay away from him, Lillian, for he is trouble.’

      She nodded, and, pleased to hear her father’s footsteps in the hall, excused herself.

      John Wilcox-Rice arrived alone in the afternoon and he had brought her a bunch of winter cheer. Blooms that would sit well in her room and she thanked him.

      Today he was dressed in a dark blue frock coat, brown trousers and a waistcoat of lighter blue. His taste was impeccable, she thought, his Hessians well polished and fashionable.

      After her talk with her cousin that morning she was in a mood to just let life take her where it would. Thoughts of children and a home of her own were becoming more formed. Perhaps a life with John would be a lot more than tolerable? Her father liked him, her aunt liked him and she liked his sister very much. The young couple from yesterday came briefly to mind, but the time between then and now had dulled her sense of yearning, her more normal sensibleness taking precedence.

      So when he took her hand in his she did not pull away, but savoured the feeling of gentle warmth.

      ‘We have known each other for a passably long time, Lillian, and I think that if we gave it the chance …’

      When she nodded, he looked heartened.

      ‘I have asked your father if I could court you and he has given his permission. Now I need the same permission from you.’

      The warning from Daniel and the Countess of Horsham’s gossip welled in her mind.

      Stay away from Lucas Clairmont. Stay away from trouble.

      ‘It is six weeks until Christmas. Perhaps we could use this time to see if …?’ She could not finish. To see what? To see if she felt passion or fervour or frenzy?

      When he drew her up with him in response she stood, and when his lips glided across her own she did try to answer him back, did attempt to summon the hope of joy and benefit.

      But she felt nothing!

      The shock of it hit her and she pulled away, amazed at the singular smile of ardour on John’s face.

      ‘I will consider that as a troth, my love, and I will treasure the beauty of it for ever.’

      The sound of a maid coming with tea had him moving away and taking his place on a chair opposite her. Yet still he grinned.

      A gentleman, a nice man, a good man. And a man whose kisses made her feel nothing.

      She lay in bed that night and cried. Cried for her mother and her father and for herself, trapped as she was by rules and rituals and etiquette.

      John’s fragrant flowers were on the table beside her bed, but she missed the ugly single orange bloom. Missed its vigour and its irreverence and its unapologetic raw colour. Missed the company of the man who had given it to her.

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