The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding

He passed by the bookshop that had once been owned by old Mr Lorne, but which he had heard now belonged to Emma Bancroft, or Lady Marton as she had become. He paused to examine the display in her bow window, the leather-bound volumes with their gilded lettering gleaming, the boxes of fine stationery. He remembered his mother going there every month for her new stock of novels from London.

The shop door swung open with a jangle of bells, and Emma Marton hurried out, nearly bumping into him. The young girl behind her, who must be her stepdaughter, the young Beatrice Marton, caught her as she stumbled and laughed. Emma looked as if she had not aged at all while he’d been gone, her blond curls still as sunny, her smile still dimpled. Like the village, she seemed to have stayed still while he felt centuries older.

But not everything had stayed the same. Under the folds of her green-velvet cloak, he could see the small bump of a child, one of the growing brood of Bancroft Park.

He remembered how once Barton had seemed as crumbling and lonely as Hilltop, and the Bancroft sisters had raised it back life. It gave him a spark of hope now to think of it.

‘Oh, Harry!’ Emma cried, her gaze flickering over his scarred face and then quickly away. ‘How perfectly wonderful to see you home. We all so feared for your health when—well, when we heard what happened and...well—’ Her words broke off and she blushed under the brim of her feathered bonnet.

He smiled down at her. ‘I left one or two bits behind on the battlefield, but am now in good health, thank you, Emma. As I see are you. You are quite blooming.’

She laughed, turning even pinker. ‘Oh, yes! In a few months, Bea here will be a sister again. You do remember Miss Beatrice Marton, my stepdaughter?’

The girl dropped a shy little curtsy as Harry bowed. She was a pretty thing, with dark hair smooth under her hood and sweet eyes; one day she would surely break hearts. ‘Of course. How do you do, Miss Marton?’

‘I am quite well, thank you, Captain St George.’

‘I couldn’t do without Bea’s help at home and here at the shop,’ Emma said proudly, taking Beatrice’s hand. ‘Especially now that Christmas is so near. I do hope we will see you at Barton.’

‘I’m afraid there is still much to do at Hilltop,’ he answered. Christmas was for family and good cheer, not for staring at wounded soldiers. He did not want to be the ghost at the feast.

‘Oh, but you must,’ Beatrice said warmly. ‘There can surely be nothing merrier than the holiday Aunt Jane has planned. Games and sleigh rides and plum pudding...’

‘Oh, Bea, I’m sure Captain St George knows how he wants to spend his holiday,’ Emma said, squeezing her stepdaughter’s hand. ‘But do know you are always most welcome at our homes, Harry, any time at all.’

‘Thank you, Emma. That does mean much to me.’ He impulsively handed her the bouquet of greenery he had bought. ‘Happy Christmas.’

He turned and walked away, but when he glanced back Emma was watching him with a thoughtful frown. She quickly smiled and waved the bouquet, the red ribbon a banner of brightness against the grey day.

* * *

Unlike the village, Hilltop did not bustle with holiday preparations and cheer. The windows were blank in the gathering twilight as Harry rode up the overgrown lane; no smoke curled from the crumbling chimneys. There were, however, a few more fallen roof slates on the portico and in the tangled flowerbeds.

As Harry swung down from the saddle, he studied the house and for just an instant he remembered what it had been like in his mother’s day, with the flowers blooming and bright against the pale grey walls, curtains elegant in every window. He could imagine a lady like Rose Parker in such a house, but not this one.

Then he blinked and the fantasy of a smiling lady welcoming him home was replaced with reality once more.

He left his horse with the young stable lad, one of the few servants left at Hilltop along with their ancient butler Jenkins, and hurried up the front steps into the darkening house. The doors to the drawing room and music room were firmly shut, the few pieces of furniture in the hall shrouded in dust cloths. Yet it was not quite as silent as he expected. The door to the library was half-open, and a bar of amber-gold spilled out. He heard the clink of heavy crystal, as if a decanter had just been plonked down on a table.

Curious, and not a little irritated that someone would break into his solitude uninvited, Harry tossed his hat and gloves on to the nearest canvas-covered table and strode towards the library.

The room was just as he had left it, half-empty and dusty, most of the books sold or packed away, but his brother, Charles, sat behind their father’s desk. His dark gold hair was over-long and mussed, his buff travel coat dusty and a half-empty brandy bottle sat before him.

He looked up and Harry saw that his blue eyes were rimmed with red. He remembered the last time he’d seen Charles, when his brother was leaving for the Continent. To paint, he said, but more likely to get away from their father. ‘My brother! The returning hero,’ Charles called, raising his almost empty glass. ‘Let me pour you a drink. You probably need it after meeting with old Mr Wall. That’s where Jenkins said you were, anyway.’

Harry sat down across from him, stretching his long legs before him. He had learned long ago not to wonder about Charles’s comings and goings. ‘I’ve just come from the tavern and it looks as if you’ve already started the celebrating.’

Charles examined his glass. ‘So I have. ’Tis the merry season, after all.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me. Where have you been lately, Charlie?’

‘Oh, here and there. Italy mostly. Then some German spa towns. Until I heard you were home.’

‘Not doing your art, then?’ Harry asked. Charles had always been a masterful artist, one who could be a professional in Harry’s uneducated opinion, though their father had scoffed at it all.

Charles frowned. ‘No, not really. Too busy with other matters.’

Harry nodded, but he said nothing. He didn’t really want to know what those ‘other matters’ were.

Charles poured them each another measure. ‘What did Wall say?’

Harry took a deep drink of the brandy. It was the last of their father’s stock and not bad at all as it burned down his throat. ‘About what you would expect he would say. Mother’s money was spent long ago and there are debts on the estate.’

Charles sighed. ‘I think there is only one solution, then, my dear brother.’

Harry laughed. ‘Sell Hilltop and go back in the army? They don’t want a one-eyed captain. Maybe you could get a job in the City?’

Charles shuddered. ‘Lud, no. How appalling. I could never have a job, and I certainly don’t want my brother nearly killed again.’

‘I’m glad you care.’ Harry thought of how it was when they were children, running together through the fields, jumping into the pond. And how far apart they were now.

‘’Course I do. You’re the only brother I have. And I don’t think we can sell Hilltop.’

‘Indeed not. Even if it weren’t entailed in the St George family, no one would want it.’

‘Exactly. Ghastly old pile.’

‘Then what is your solution?’

‘Very simple. You must marry an heiress,’ Charles said.

Harry laughed even harder. ‘You always did have a fine way with a joke, Charlie.’

Charles scowled. ‘I am absolutely serious. A lady, one with style and a fine dowry, would fix things in a trice.’

Harry shook his head. Even before he was wounded, his wooing skills had not been the greatest. To think of trying to win a fair, rich lady now—he laughed again. ‘Who would you suggest, then? Has a blind heiress come on to the market, perhaps? One who could tolerate a scarred old soldier?’

‘You’ve always been far more handsome than you would admit, Harry. And now you’re a wounded warrior. Ladies love that.’ Charles paused to stare down into his glass. ‘Helen Layton is recently widowed, you know. They say her husband left her well set-up indeed.’

Harry’s smile faded and he swallowed the last of his drink. ‘You know that was over long ago. I think you are the one who will have to find an heiress, Charlie. You always enjoyed society much more than me, anyway. You could take up painting again. Or you could go back to the Continent to look among the spas and casinos.’

‘I doubt we would have to go so far. This came while you were out.’ Charles slapped a letter down on the desk.

Harry gave it a suspicious glance. ‘What is it? Another dunning letter?’

‘Of course not. It’s an invitation to a Christmas house party at Barton Park. Jane says there will be several ladies there, old friends and new.’

‘Ah,’ Harry muttered, pushing aside his glass. Games and sleigh rides and plum pudding. ‘So that’s what she meant.’

‘She?’

‘I saw Emma Marton in the village, she said something about Barton for the holiday. Thought it might be a good distraction.’ And it might, he thought through the slight haze of the brandy as he studied the crumbling plaster of the ceiling. Anything would be better than looking at this room any longer.

‘Well, I suppose somehow, some way, we have to try and save Hilltop,’ Charles said. ‘I know I’ve always been a useless wastrel, but...’

‘No,’ Harry said decisively. ‘I am the eldest and this is indeed our family’s home. We do have to save it and everyone who depends on it along with it. I will find a way.’ No matter what.

Chapter Three

We are having a true, merry, family sort of holiday here at Barton Park, where we hope to see all our old friends.

We have not seen you seen you since Lord Fitzwalter attended Lord Fallon’s funeral and we hope that your mourning will not deprive us of your company.

Her mourning. Helen, Dowager Lady Fallon, laughed as she dropped Jane Ramsay’s letter at the side of the bathtub. She sank deeper into the rose-scented water and stared up at the painted tile ceiling of her bathing room in her London town house. Everyone had thought it so extravagant when she’d had it built on to her dressing room, with its marble walls and painted fireplace. But it was her favourite place, a small, cosy space where no one would bother her.

She had once thought being Lady Fallon would be a grand thing indeed, a life of ease and grandeur, full of pretty gowns and parties and fun. So different from her own family, their façade of liveliness and prosperity that hid a distinct lack of funds. She had given up Harry St George, so handsome and gallant, to marry a man thirty years older in order to get that life. But being Lady Fallon had not been what she’d expected.

It hadn’t been worth it.

Helen sat up in the tub, the water frothing around her, and caught a glimpse of herself in her gilt-framed mirror. Her golden hair, curling with the damp air, her pink and white skin, it was all still youthful and beautiful. And she did have old Lord Fallon’s money now, too. Surely it was not too late for her?

She reached for the letter again. Old friends. Did that mean Harry St George would be there? She had heard he had returned to England, more heroic than ever. What could she not do in society, with her new money and a war hero at her side?

Maybe a Christmas in the country was just what she needed.

* * *

Charles St George swirled the brandy in his glass and stared out into the darkness of the night. Winter clouds had lowered, extinguishing the stars and moonlight, but that was good. In the darkness, the shambles of the garden at Hilltop, the garden their mother had once so loved, that he had painted so many times, could not be seen. It was just a blank, like everything else.

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