Regency Reunions at Christmas
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Diane Gaston
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Three festive Regency second-chance romances in one volume 'Tis the season… For three reunion romances! In The Major's Christmas Return by Diane Gaston: at her friend's house for Christmas, Caroline's shocked her fellow houseguest is Major Nashfield — who left her at the altar! In A Proposal for the Penniless Lady by Laura Martin: Isobel's always regretted obeying her father and turning down Thomas's proposal. Now that he's back for Christmas, is this their second chance? And in Her Duke Under the Mistletoe by Helen Dickson: Sophie is stunned by her convenient husband Tristan's return — and their thrilling new attraction…
Chapter One
Caroline Demain peered out the carriage window and caught a glimpse of the stately yellow-brick country house. In mere minutes she’d be in the embrace of her dear friend Sybella.
Dear, dear Sybella. What would Caroline have done if Sybella’s letter had not reached her, inviting her to come for Christmas and stay as long as she liked? Without Sybella’s invitation Caroline would be knocking on the door of the poorhouse in a matter of weeks.
Sybella had bought her more time. She’d even provided funds for the travel from London. Caroline was grateful.
Her brow furrowed. Perhaps the full newspaper accounts had not reached Sybella, the accounts that implied she’d killed her husband.
Caroline again saw Percy tumble down the stairs, his face alarmed, his body twisted and eyes vacant after he hit the bottom step.
She had killed him.
The carriage drew up to the main entrance to the house. The yard was eerily quiet, no signs of life at all.
One of the coachmen helped her climb out of the carriage, the other unloaded her trunk, portmanteau, hatbox and bag. He set them down in front of the door. Caroline thanked them, gave them each a coin for their efforts. They pulled on their forelocks and climbed back onto the carriage. It pulled away, leaving her alone.
She expected the door to open—surely someone had heard the carriage—but it did not.
Squaring her shoulders, she climbed the stone steps and sounded the brass knocker. After a minute’s pause, the door opened and she stepped into the Marble Hall.
The door was held by a young dark-haired footman, no older than seventeen, perhaps. Behind him were two maids even younger than the footman, huddled together. The smallest, and perhaps youngest, was a girl with black skin and brown eyes, a white cap covering her hair and wearing the apron of a kitchen servant. The other maid was taller, red-haired and freckle-faced. All three gaped at Caroline wide-eyed, as if in shock.
‘I—I am Mrs Demain.’ How she hated that name. ‘Lady Bolton is expecting me.’
The footman closed the door and handed her a folded sheet of paper.
She opened it and immediately recognised Sybella’s handwriting:
Dear Caroline,
Please forgive us. We’ve had to flee to my parents’ house. You see, a friend of Jeremy’s, a guest here for a few weeks, was supposed to be gone by now but—please do not be alarmed—he has contracted typhus. We had to leave for the children’s sake, you understand.
We’ve left a footman and a maid to attend you, and a kitchen maid to prepare meals. They will also attend the patient. You must not enter the patient’s room. Do not go anywhere near it! I should not forgive myself if you also became ill.
I am sure Mama will insist we stay until Twelfth Night. Expect us after, if there is no more illness there. Send word if there is.
I did so wish to see you, but we simply had to leave.
Yours,
S.
PS I would have had you come with us, but you know how my mother is.
Caroline stared at the letter, trying to let the words sink in. She was to stay alone in this country house with an outbreak of typhus and only these three youths to care for the place and the patient?
Well, at least she had a roof over her head and food to eat. Some day soon it could be so much worse.
She glanced up at the three young servants. It looked as if the kitchen maid was about to burst into tears.
‘When did Lord and Lady Bolton leave?’ she asked.
The footman responded. ‘Not more than a half-hour ago.’
So this situation was almost as new to these young servants as it was to her. ‘Were you told what was in the letter?’
The three nodded.
‘The sick man has typhus!’ the kitchen maid cried.
The footman looked bleak. ‘We’ve seen typhus. We’ve seen friends die of it in the orphanage.’
‘We could die, too!’ The girl burst into tears.
The footman and other maid rushed to comfort her.
Now Caroline understood. ‘You fear catching typhus.’
The red-haired maid’s eyes flashed. ‘Lord and Lady Bolton left us here. They do not care if we get sick and die.’
‘Hush, Molly,’ the footman said. ‘She will tell Lady Bolton.’
‘I will not tell Lady Bolton,’ she assured them. ‘After all, they left me here, too.’
‘Yes,’ the red-haired maid countered. ‘But you are to stay away from the gentleman. You are safe and we are not!’
‘We’ll manage, Molly,’ the footman said.
How could Sybella be so cruel to these poor young people, adding this cruelty to what must have been a lifetime of cruelties? Most of Caroline’s life had been carefree and full of abundance. Now she had nothing to lose.
If she contracted typhus, who was there to care if she lived or died?
‘May I know your names?’ she asked.
The footman bowed. ‘I am Elliot, ma’am.’ He gestured to the maids. ‘This is Molly and Lucy.’
Caroline smiled at each of them in turn. ‘Elliot. Molly. Lucy. I am pleased to meet you. I have a small trunk and other luggage outside. Do you suppose you could bring it in? Then we can decide what to do.’
Elliot and Molly hurried out the door.
Lucy stared at her.
Caroline smiled at her again. ‘What are your duties here, Lucy?’
The girl gazed down. ‘The kitchen, ma’am. The scullery.’
‘Then you will be feeding us?’
The girl nodded.
The door opened again. Elliot carried in the trunk and Molly, the portmanteau, her hatbox and other bag—all her worldly possessions.
Caroline turned to them. ‘Thank you, Elliot. Molly. You may put them down here for the time being.’
They placed her luggage on the black and white chequered floor.
Caroline took a fortifying breath. ‘Here is what we shall do.’ There was no other choice really. ‘I will care for the patient. Only me. You three will have enough to do tending to this house on your own.’
‘But my lady said—’ Molly’s eyes widened.
Caroline put up a hand. ‘Lady Bolton is not here. We are. We four will decide what is to be done.’ She turned to the kitchen maid. ‘Lucy, you will tend the kitchen. I am certain the rest of us know nothing about cooking food.’ She faced Molly. ‘And you must tend to the house. Whatever cleaning and laundry needs doing.’ Finally the footman. ‘Elliot, you are the only one who can perform the heavy tasks.’ She pointed to herself. ‘I am experienced at nursing, so I will care for the patient.’ She’d certainly tended to Percy often enough—although most of those times were when he’d imbibed too much drink.
She only now removed her hat and cloak. The footman rushed forward to take them from her.
With a resolve more forced than secure, she lifted her chin. ‘Now, show me to the patient.’
Elliot shoved her hat and cloak into Molly’s hands. ‘This way, ma’am.’
He led her up the staircase past the library and the lord and lady’s bedchambers to a wing of lesser bedchambers. Molly and Lucy followed but held back as they reached the doorway to one of the rooms.
Elliot gestured to the door. ‘He is in here.’
She opened the door and entered.
The room’s curtains were drawn and the room dark. The air smelt stale. Prominently in the room was the bed and the sleeping figure in it. The only sound, his raspy breathing.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. He lay still, tangled in the bedsheets, his back to her. His bare back.
The man wore no shirt.
Was he naked?
She took a step back.
Wait. She was no green girl. She’d seen Percy naked before, tended to him before.
She approached the bed. As she got closer she could see the patient’s dark hair was damp with sweat. She reached over and placed her fingers on his back. His skin burned with fever.
He stirred, groaned and turned over in bed.
Caroline gasped.
His eyes opened, barely focusing on her. ‘Caro?’ he mumbled. ‘Caro.’
He rolled over again.
Her legs threatened to give out.
The sick man lying in the bed, whose care was solely hers, was Nash.
Major Guy Nashfield.
The man who left her standing at the altar on their wedding day seven years before.
