A Regency Christmas Carol (18 page)

They were all names he recognised, for he had seen the men gathered around him just a few days ago, with hammers and torches, eager to push through the gates and smash the frames on the mill floor. Wilkins, Mutter, Andrews—and the eponymous Weaver, whose family had been at the craft for so long that they shared its name. All dead. All on the same day.

Had he called the militia? Or some other branch of the law? It could have been hanging, or just as easily a pitched battle that the local men were overmatched to fight. But the arrival of troops would explain the crease a bullet had made in the stonework at the mill. No matter what it had been, the rebellion had been stopped. And he had been at the heart of it. Calling in the law to protect his rights, and wiping out families in the process.

‘It seems I won the argument in the end,’ he said to the spirit. ‘But there is no joy in knowing it.’

He looked down at another grave, some way distant from the cluster, and found Jordan—the man whose family he had seen starving just two nights ago. This man’s stone was flanked with two smaller ones, topped with stone lambs. Joseph felt a chill, and found he did not have the nerve to look closer, for he was already imagining that table of hungry children, and the likelihood that whatever food was offered there now did not have as far to stretch.

The spectre gestured that it was time to withdraw, but he shook his head. Joseph searched the gravestones for one name in particular, knowing that if these men were here Barbara’s father had likely died at their side, a victim of violence. She might have been hurt or killed, and the fault would lie with him.

‘Where is Bernard Lampett? He must be dead as well. Why does he not lie with his friends?’

The ghost led him back to a monument worthy of a lord: a marble tomb, with brass fittings and a weeping angel at the top that shone with gilt. It was just the sort of grand thing he’d have ordered, had he the choice. It was garish and horrible next to the sad simplicity he had visited, but at one time he would not have been able to resist this final display of wealth. He fingered the letters carved in the side.

‘Lampett. Dead the same day as the rest. And his
wife three months later.’ Whether she had passed from poverty or grief, he did not know.

There was no sign here of what had happened to Barbara. But he could read the truth in the marble. Whatever had occurred, she had been there to see her father fall and to know that Joseph was to blame for it. The crypt he stood before was the product of his own guilty conscience. He had buried her parents properly, hoping to assuage whatever obligation he had incurred from the deaths.

He would only have done that if Barbara were still alive.

‘Take me to her. I need to know what has happened,’ he said, not bothering with a name. If the spirit knew to show him this, then it knew everything. He glanced helplessly as it raised a hand in the direction of the village, and they set off down the road together.

They would not be walking if there was nothing to see. He tensed, knowing that if the lessons held to form the spirit had likely saved the worst for last. But he had to know the truth, and so he set an eager pace.

‘If you have something to show me, then be quick about it. I think you have managed to teach the lesson you wished. I must change. Although how I will do it I am not sure. There are expectations on me, you know. I cannot throw aside my engagement with the promise that she will be better off. Nor can I let the profits go hang and the equipment be destroyed. I cannot just walk away from it all.’

In response, the spirit said nothing.

‘And now you will show me Barbara. What has become of her, then? Has she forgiven me? I seriously doubt it. Does she hate me? What misery am I likely to see? How will you lay it all at my door? Surely these people deserve some credit in their futures?’ he said. ‘She could just as easily have made a hash of things on her own, without my help. She was well on the way to that when I met her.’

He might as well have been arguing with the fog, for all he heard was the echo of his own empty words. But even he did not believe them. Even if he could convince himself that her misfortunes were her own doing, or her father’s, it would pain him to see them.

At least they were going back to the village and not searching the graveyard for another stone. Surely that meant there was hope.

If he could just see her, it would be all right. What he saw—whatever its cause—could be changed for the better, even if he had to move heaven and earth—he glanced at the spectre beside him—or perhaps heaven and hell.

They were stopping at the same cottage she lived in now, as quietly cheerful as it had ever been, despite what he had just seen of her family. It held the same air of peace that he had seen just the other day, with the path swept of snow and the holly bushes by the door carefully trimmed. But it was as if, with the passage of time, the presence of the two others who had lived
there had evaporated. If he searched, he would find no pipe ash in the garden, nor papers scattered on the writing desk. And there would be no Christmas dinner big enough for three and whatever guests might stop.

They drifted through the door as though it was nothing more than mist, and he was glad. He was sure that the cold tended to get in with each opening of the door, and it had a way of lingering like an unwanted guest. At least she should be warm and comfortable in her own home.

She was not in the front room, or the little kitchen, and he drifted with the spirit towards the bedrooms, feeling like a voyeur but unable to contain his curiosity.

He was right to be ashamed, for she was not alone. Though it was the middle of the day she was in bed, the sheet pooling around her waist as she stroked the back of the man lying beside her. She was older, as Anne had been, but still as beautiful as he remembered her from the previous night. Her breasts larger, heavier, her waist thickening. He wondered, if he passed through the cloth that hung over the doorframe of the other room, whether he would find a cradle in use, or a row of tiny cots. Were there children playing in the garden behind the cottage?

But there was no sound of laughter in the house or the garden.

He did not like to think that she had made no family for herself. But she was looking up at the man beside her with such warmth that perhaps the future was not
so very grim. If he had nothing else, he would know that she was safe.

Then her lover turned, and Joseph saw his older self, rising from the bed.

Without thinking, Joseph ran his hands over his own body, seeking reassurance of sound mind and limbs. Was this really what he would look like? Or did he have some bit of that in him now? Vanity had made him sure that he was handsome, and ladies had done nothing to dissuade him from the belief. But this new him was a strange thing—pale, hair shot with grey, face hardened into a frown, body spider-thin and beginning to stoop.

The other him rose from the bed, not even looking down at the lovely woman who reached for him, pulling on trousers, tugging a shirt back into place and hurriedly tying his neckcloth.

‘You cannot stay?’ Barbara held out a hand to him, inviting.

‘Why would I wish to? You could not even manage to heat the room, though you knew I would be coming.’

If the words hurt her, she gave no sign of it. ‘It is warm enough in my bed, is it not?’

‘It would be even warmer in a larger bed, with softer sheets. I have given you ample opportunity to move to more hospitable lodgings, and yet you insist on remaining in this hovel.’

‘It is my home,’ she said simply.

‘It forces me to come into the village in the middle
of the day. You know how the people treat me. And we both know what they think of you because of my visits.’

She smiled sadly. ‘I cannot help how they treat you. What they think of me is no less than the truth. I fail to see, after all this time, how I can change that.’

Joseph felt a hint of dread. How had it come to this? Just this morning she had left him with her pride intact. Lying with her had been a mistake. But he had intended something different by it. Surely it meant more than this?

The older Stratford scowled. ‘I do not like it.’

At last he was showing some compassion, and Joseph looked on anxiously.

‘It reflects poorly on me. I will build you a house—a fine one—with servants and proper receiving rooms. I will place it closer to the mill so that it will be more convenient.’

Joseph winced, for he could guess the sharp rejoinder he would receive. Barbara would put him in his place, right enough. Then he would apologise for his foolishness.

‘But it would not be as convenient for me,’ Barbara said softly, with a lying smile that was close to the one he’d seen most often on Anne Clairemont. ‘It would cost you nothing if I remained here and you came more often, rather than staying so long at the mill.’

‘You know I cannot put aside my work for you.’ His own voice was deeper, rougher and annoyed. ‘If I leave
the floor even for a minute there is mischief. Thieves and ruffians, the lot of them.’

‘You work too hard,’ she chided gently. ‘And you are hard on those who work for you. Perhaps if you showed compassion…’

‘There is no place for compassion in business,’ he barked. ‘Since you know nothing about it, it would be better if you learned to keep silent, instead of parading your ignorance.’

Her smile faltered. ‘Of course. But if I speak it is only because I care too much for you.’

Why do you bother?
This man was hardly worthy of her affection. Suddenly, Joseph realised that he was thinking of himself as a stranger, and feeling jealous of and angered by the way that individual had squandered the trust that he was working so hard to earn. Apparently he had not even the courtesy to come to her in the night, to conceal what they did from the eyes of her neighbours.

And Barbara accepted it from him. She allowed him to treat her so after all the things he had done to hurt her, soaking up his cruelty like a sponge.

The other him looked down at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion, as though he had no reason to take her kindness for what it was. ‘I give you no reason to care. But thank you.’ He reached into his pocket and withdrew a jewel case. ‘For you. A tiara to complete your parure.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, with a misery that the older Joseph Stratford did not seem to notice. She did not
bother to open the box, merely set it on a table at the side of the bed.

‘You idiot,’ he said to his other self. ‘I have no taste to speak of. But even I know that she would have no use for a crown. How could you? You are treating her…’

Like a whore.

‘You’re welcome,’ said the other Stratford, and his response was as false as her thanks. ‘And good day.’ He turned to go.

Barbara’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but she did not rise to see him out.

Joseph stepped forwards, unable to stand it any longer. He tried to catch the arm of the man at the door and his fingers passed through it. He swung again, in frustration, with enough force to bruise, and yet felt nothing but the passing of the air.

‘Stay with her,’ he demanded. ‘Hear me, you bastard. I know you can. I am the sound of your own voice in your head. Listen to me.’

There was the slightest flinch in the shoulders of the man, as though he had felt a slap.

‘Stay with her, damn you. Or at least take back that jewellery. You cheapen her with such a gift.’

The man he would become twitched again, as though he were throwing off a lead, and strode through the door and out of the cottage, letting the door slam behind him.

Slowly Barbara leaned back into the bed, as though it were an effort to stay upright and maintain the pretence of happiness when he was not there to see it. Without a
word, or so much as a whimper, her tears began to fall. He knew the meaning of tears like that, shed in such utter silence. He had cried like that as a boy, when he had been convinced that there was no future for him.

He could bear it no longer, and reached out to touch her. But when his hand touched her face it seemed to glide through, leaving only a momentary warmth on his fingertips. There would be no comfort in this for either of them. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, so close that he should have been able to feel the warmth of her body against his leg.

Apparently she felt the cold in him, for she shivered. ‘It will be all right,’ he said softly, hearing the trembling in his own voice. ‘I will make it better. It will never come to this. I swear to you. You will not cry, damn me for each tear. You will not cry.’

He leaned closer, letting the shadow of himself fall onto the shadow of her until they were as one body. He felt the fear and pain and confusion that was in her as though it were his own. Worst of all, he felt her despair. She knew with certainty that it would never be better than it was at this moment, and would most likely be worse. He was slipping away a little more with each visit. She could sell the jewellery. She did not need it. She would never know want. But she would never know love. How had it come to this? He had sworn to take care of her.

He felt her own guilt at her weakness, and her shame at betraying her parents’ memories each time
she touched him. But she had loved him from the first. She still loved him. It had never meant more than money to him, but she had wanted to believe otherwise.

And Joseph realised with a shock that there was no blame here for anyone but him. He had done this to her—had changed every element of her life, had taken her family from her. And what he had put in the empty place was nothing more than cold comfort.

He could feel the increasing impatience of the silent spirit at his back, tugging him free. He fought, trying to stay with her, wishing she could feel some bit of him and take comfort in it, or that he could take away with him some small part of the burden she carried.

But he was gone with a wrench, being dragged back down the street towards the manor. He looked back at the haze of the spirit, feeling tears wet his own cheeks, and he said, ‘I can change. Let me change.’ He reached out to grab at the hood of the spirit, forcing it to face him as he had been afraid to before.