Under a Christmas Sky Read online

  Books by Sharon Sobel

  The Hermitage

  On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, My True Love

  Lord Armadale’s Iberian Lady

  Under a Christmas Sky

  by

  Sharon Sobel

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-853-0

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-847-9

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Sobel

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Couple (manipulated) © Hot Damn Stock

  Background (manipulated) © Ateliersommerland | Dreamstime.com

  :Ecus:01:

  Dedication

  For Rosalind Beatrice Nellis

  On Your First Birthday

  Dear Readers

  After four years of contributing novellas to the wonderful ImaJinn/BelleBooks Christmas anthologies, I am delighted to present to you my Christmas gift of a Regency novel: Under a Christmas Sky. The opportunity to indulge in more detailed characterization, back story, description, and narration has been a writer’s greatest pleasure, and Julia and Will’s journey together has retained its hold on my imagination.

  For the first time in my writing career, I worked in partnership with another author, as we coordinated everything from the larger plot points to the smaller details of our two novels. I am blessed to have written Under a Christmas Sky while regularly corresponding with the talented and generous Virginia Brown, whose wonderful romance Mistletoe Magic has characters and events intersecting with my own. Truly, it was an extraordinary Christmas house party.

  I am grateful for Virginia’s suggestions and advice, as we are both grateful for the collaborative efforts and wisdom of Brenda Chin, our extraordinary editor. As we are all grateful to you, our readers, for entering into the Regency world we have crafted.

  With best wishes and blessings in this holiday season, and for the new year.

  —Sharon Sobel

  Prologue

  THE WINTER STORM raging relentlessly for two days surely had the final say on any speculation that warm weather would arrive before the year’s end. Optimists—and the merely deluded—argued that because 1816 was a year without a summer, there was reason to hope that warm weather and sunny skies would simply be postponed to late December. They would most likely be proven wrong, for winter had arrived in these few weeks before Christmas with a ferocity unknown to memory.

  Lady Leighton Kingswood was terrified.

  Usually, the vagaries of weather had little interest for her, unless she needed to consider if the roads might be too muddy for a walk into Lowerwood, or if she ought to carry an umbrella to protect her fair complexion from the sun. The freckles across her nose were a daily reminder of the indiscretions of her childhood and summer days playing with her sisters in the fields close to Gainsmeadow.

  But those days were long gone and she now knew better than most about the fragility of life and the futility of promise.

  “I don’t know what is to become of us. Will we need to shovel the snow ourselves?”

  Julia, Lady Leighton, turned from the isinglass window of her borrowed coach, somewhat surprised that her—also borrowed—maid now worried so. The young woman had been hired along with the coach and driver to accompany Julia on this journey. She seemed a flighty thing, unable to engage in any conversation or interest herself in the needlework she abandoned on the seat cushion. But she did seem to trust the driver, especially when he cheerfully assured them not an hour ago that he was quite accustomed to being out in such storms and more than capable of navigating them from posting inn to posting inn until they arrived in Rye.

  Inasmuch as there had never been such a storm, Julia was doubtful about his claim. The young maid, however, had looked adoringly at him. Though, indeed, she might have looked the same if he promised to steer the poor horses right off a cliff. Julia had the sense that there was some sort of understanding between these two.

  However, young Mimma now seemed more concerned for her life than confident in the abilities of Mr. Hedges.

  “I am certain Mr. Hedges knows what he is doing; though he is quite young, he seems a sturdy and experienced sort, Mimma,” Julia said, attempting to keep her voice steady and calm. “And have we not progressed many miles today? We should arrive at Seabury well before Christmas—oh!”

  Julia caught the strap on the door, trying to steady herself as the great coach lurched to the left. She cleared her throat and tried to look as if the unusually rough ride was perfectly normal.

  Mimma was still not convinced and looked like a caged animal, shifting from side to side and scratching at the windows, as if she could wipe away the snow falling outside from the inside. Exhausting herself, with nothing to show for it, she put her hands to her face and shook her head.

  “It will not work,” she said quietly, and then louder. “It will not work!”

  Julia did not know what ought to work, in a year when everything seemed all topsy turvy, but scarcely knew what else she could say. It certainly would be vastly inconsiderate to complain about anything when poor Mr. Hedges was out there in the storm, attempting to deliver them safely to the home of her late husband’s sister and brother-in-law.

  “Oh, it will work out just fine, Mimma. So you needn’t worry at all,” she chattered on, hardly convinced of her own words. “We will soon be at Seabury. Lord and Lady Howard have invited a great many estimable guests, including Princess Charlotte herself, and Lord and Lady Jersey. I understand a gentleman recently returned from Java will also be there, as well as a famous violinist from Vienna. Even I am expected to contribute my own poor singing talents to the party, though if we arrive a bit late, my absence may not even be noted. Indeed, my reputation might be saved if this cold air renders me unable to sing at all.”

  Julia attempted to laugh, but her voice sounded frail and reedy. She coughed and cleared her throat.

  Mimma placed her hand on the door latch, looking to steady herself.

  “But I shall enjoy hot tea in abundance when we arrive at the inn in Southford. And you must do the same, for it would do us both a world of good. Did Mr. Hedges not say that we should arrive there by nightfall?” Julia spoke quickly, with an increasing sense of urgency. She glanced at the window, seeing nothing but the driving snow, and smiled cheerfully as she smoothed her heavy wool blanket around her. “It looks very nearly so.”

  Mimma frowned, not at all convinced. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but it looks like . . .”

  Whatever Mimma intended to say was lost a
s the door suddenly opened, and she flew out into the storm. There came a crack as loud as thunder, and a great groaning of the wooden coach as it seemed to come apart. Julia thought the scream she heard was her own as she was flung out of the nest of warmth in which she sat, and her shoulders hit the front wall of the vehicle. She slumped onto the seat only a moment before the roof came down on her, and left her boxed into a space no larger than a coffin, where she could no longer feel her legs. She called for Mimma once, and then again, before she slipped down an endless tunnel, into darkness.

  Chapter 1

  LORD WILLEM WAKEFIELD wondered why anyone in his right mind would wish to leave a tropical island in the middle of the bright blue Indian Ocean to endure an English winter. True, the island of Java was in near ruin as a result of the eruption of Tambora a year and a half before. And the amount of debris thrown up by that volcano had created a cloud so vast and thick, it was near impossible to find a clean surface, even within one’s own home. But linen was infinitely more comfortable on one’s flesh than thick Scottish woolens, and daily life was a far more casual affair than he could expect in England, even at the home of one of his oldest friends.

  And yet, it was precisely because he was well-regarded as being in his right mind, and having a very fine one, that he was asked to depart from that exotic, warm island on a diplomatic mission many months before. Now, he not only had to negotiate with men who might not be amiable to his suit, but had to negotiate his journey through the unrelenting snow that had buried England and the Netherlands since October. This too arrived from Java, for Tambora’s great volcanic cloud spread over much of the globe, influencing temperatures and causing great irregularities for fauna and flora. No one still living could recall anything quite like it.

  But people persisted in their habits, no matter the climate, and Christmas festivities were not to be denied.

  He would have been perfectly content to remain in his warm home on Edgware Road and raise a glass of rum to the portraits of his Wakefield ancestors over the mantle. After all, he had already survived several years without a Christmas, much as his family and friends had endured this year without a summer. The holiday was barely noted in the Dutch East Indies, except by those emissaries from Europe determined to replicate the traditions they had always known. And in London and The Hague, people spent the cold and dark days of July and August alternating complaints with measures of pride at their own hardiness. But life did go on.

  Will circled the fingers on his left hand on the carved ring he wore on his right, noting that it fit loosely in the cold air. He pulled on his gloves to hold it in place. Yes, life did go on.

  As did his tenacious driver. The snow must be brutally assaulting any man who rode aloft and into the wind, but Milton was a stubborn fool.

  Geoff Howard, his old friend, was just as stubborn, but had the advantage of not having to travel at all this season. Lord and Lady Howard were determined to end the year with a Christmas gathering, to celebrate their endurance through this cold and sunless year and to introduce their new heir, born on a frosty morning in early September. But for Geoff and Will, and a few others, there was business to be done, best accomplished far from the clubs of London or in the dark halls of the Ridderzaal in Holland.

  Some of that business concerned Lt. Governor Thomas Raffles’s expected elevation to the knighthood, and the various means by which the process could be hastened. Raffles was quite capable of achieving his own ends, but it was not expedient for an official of the British government to abandon his devastated colony while its people were still recovering from injury and assessing their losses. Therefore, Raffles asked Will if he would precede him to London and campaign on his behalf. Will, who lived all his life in diplomatic circles, now knew enough of tragedy and despair that went well beyond the marble halls where the fate of individuals was often discussed and decided. He, himself, experienced great loss in the great eruption of Tambora. It was time to return to Europe.

  And so he seized both the opportunity and the large manuscript Raffles presented to him, believing that having a purpose and mission would cure him of his current despair. Though Raffles’s manuscript proved to be a weighty travel companion, as it was the man’s memoir of his heroic deeds in the days and months since that devastating morning a year and a half ago, it would soon be out of Will’s hands. He’d promised to present it to Princess Charlotte as a gift from a loyal servant of the Crown, with the hope that the generous lady would urge her father to reward Thomas Raffles with the knighthood he very much desired.

  Will knew that the princess would be a guest at the Christmas party at Seabury, which provided an excellent opportunity to make the presentation, for all men and women of influence were likely to be most generous—and perhaps not entirely sober—during the holiday and at the start of a New Year.

  The task should not prove difficult, as a man who was Lt. Governor of an English colony was not without his own influential connections. Raffles considered himself a confidante of the princess, who already promised to speak to her father on his behalf. He wisely dedicated his memoirs to her, though apparently cautioned that she might be fearful to read his vivid descriptions of molten lava raining down upon villages and their inhabitants.

  Will thought the princess was made of sterner stuff than that.

  But he had another mission in sight, of greater consequence than the vanity of one man, no matter how deserving. In the days immediately following Tambora’s angry eruption, it appeared another one of his countrymen had taken advantage of the confusion to steal away many of Java’s historical treasures, the legacy of the people who had lived very rich lives before the Dutch and the English started to contest their rights to the island. Lord Nicholas Hawkely was one of Will’s oldest friends, a relationship made even stronger during the time Will sailed to Java on the Renown, Nick’s own ship. Will thought him an excellent companion and an honorable man. And Thomas Raffles trusted Nick with the treasures he himself acquired during his tenure as Lt. Governor. Will saw no reason to dispute that.

  Until the Renown arrived in London without the contents of those carefully packed and catalogued shipped containers.

  Nick had remained elusive while the investigation was in progress, but Will had received word from Geoff Howard, the master of Seabury, and host of the season’s festivities, that the man would attend his Christmas party.

  Will closed his eyes, reflecting on the great journey he had already undertaken, and how complicated were the roads to his destination. In this, he was not just thinking metaphorically, for rarely had he endured such arduous travel, not even in the midst of a typhoon.

  But he did not doubt they would reach Seabury, Geoff’s fine estate near Rye, and in good time. He had little reason to doubt it and even less power to do anything about it.

  As the coach was jostled back and forth by the storm, Will gave up trying to read the essays written in Raffles’s tight hand and stared out the window. He had lived most of his life in the Netherlands and was well accustomed to the sound of snow mixed with ice. As a child, he delighted in the sound, for it meant that the canals in The Hague would freeze over and he could skate his way around the city.

  But this snow was different, a nasty mix of frozen material and the debris of volcanic ash, scratching angrily at the windows. He thought of the horses and his driver, undoubtedly traveling blind on a road no longer distinguished from the fields through which they passed. Will sent up a brief prayer that they would soon arrive at their destination, preferably without crashing right into it.

  As if his Maker had nothing better to do than concern Himself with the concerns of one suppliant, the coach came to a lumbering halt. Surprised but nevertheless pleased, Will glanced out one side of the coach and then the other, hoping to see the welcoming lights of the posting inn. There was nothing visible but the stark branches of nearby trees, rising eerily against the last strains of twi
light.

  Perhaps they were lost. Or the wheels could no longer trample through the snow and were stuck in a drift. The horses might have refused to take another step. Perhaps the driver had become blind in the storm and fallen off the seat.

  No indeed, the driver was at the door, banging on the wood as if to wake the dead.

  “The door is frozen, my lord,” Milton shouted. “Push out, if you can.”

  Surely the man did not think him so utterly helpless he could not open a carriage door. On the other hand, Will briefly reflected on his first thoughts when the coach stopped and realized that the past year in Java had made him see disaster at every turn. Perhaps he would be stuck in the carriage all night.

  He dismissed the cowardly thought as unworthy of him, and threw his shoulder against the finely polished wood.

  They would persist, even though he might have just broken his collarbone.

  “Well done, my lord! You’re almost out!”

  With renewed hope, Will shifted to the facing seat and hit the door with his other shoulder. In this, he succeeded, for he fell out on his companion, landing them both into the snow.

  “Did I hurt you, Milton?”

  Surprisingly, the man laughed. “Fear not, my lord. I’m nearly frozen and can’t feel a thing.”

  Will rolled over and squinted up to the sky. It was impossible to fully open his eyes, for fear of being blinded.

  “Come within the coach for a few minutes, then, where you can warm yourself. The heating pan does not have much more to give off, but the space is well fitted and is tolerably warm,” he said.

  “Nothing ever sounded more inviting, but we will be at the inn sooner if we just forge ahead.”

  “I am ready to go whenever you, or the horses, feel ready to proceed,” Will said, thinking ahead to a warm bed and a hot meal. “Why did we stop?”