Page 71 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

The Winter Bride

Chapter 1

“Wherein a lady’s brother is a vile fiend.”

12th November 1819. Burwash Weald, East Sussex, England.

The icy air bit hard as the fragile glint of daylight faded from the skies. Ned stared up at the low grey clouds for a moment before looking towards the farm. An uneven selection of barns and outbuildings clustered around the yard in front of the main house, which was solid and reassuring against the frozen backdrop. It was a handsome old place, half-timbered and red brick, crooked with age. It sat quietly in the harsh winter landscape, enduring the bitter season like everything else.

The light dusting of snow muted the heavy tread of Ned’s boots as he trudged back home, and the kitchen window glowed like a beacon. It was the kind of day that made a man long to be inside and sitting beside a warm fire. Ned watched a pale plume of smoke from the huge brick chimney curl against the forbidding sky. Aye, the kitchen would be snug and cosy now.

He had that to look forward to, he reminded himself, though the Christmas season spread out before him like an empty field, barren in this winter scene, with every inch picked bare by crows.

With a sharp whistle, he called Rufus. The dog stopped snuffling about by the farm gate and hesitated for a moment before huffing and following him to the door. Ned stamped his feet, kicking the worst of the snow and muck free from his boots before taking them off and carrying them inside. Mrs Tucknott would have his hide if he walked dirty footprints through the house. For all she was half his size, even a bull of a man like Ned had a healthy respect for the woman’s temper.

As he opened the door of the kitchen, scents of cooking and clean linen enveloped him, along with the ever-present tang of wood smoke that was as much a part of the old house’s fabric as the timbers themselves.

“You’ve time to wash up,” Mrs Tucknott said, nodding a greeting to him as she laid the table for his dinner.

“Right.”

Ned took himself off to wash and change out of his work clothes. They never had much in the way of conversation, but it was nice to have another living soul in the house, just to know they were there.

Once he was presentable and in no danger of getting a scolding, Ned returned to the kitchen and Mrs Tucknott served him a huge bowl of steaming lamb stew. A fresh loaf, with three thick slices ready cut, sat on the table with the butter dish, along with a bowl of potatoes and another of cabbage. Ned’s stomach growled with appreciation.

The sound of a horse and cart clattering into the yard outside announced the arrival of Mr Tucknott, and the housekeeper undid her apron and folded it with brisk, efficient movements.

“Mr Hardy, are you quite certain—?”

Ned sighed and held up a hand. “We’ve discussed it, Mrs Tucknott. Go visit your daughter. It’s three years since ye last went to Scotland, and her with the new bairn. You’ve filled the pantry fit to bursting. I won’t starve.”

“I know that,” she said with a huff and folded her arms.

Ned regarded her. She was a little bird of a woman, with eyes as bright and dark as a robin’s. She was every bit as territorial, too.

“What, then?”

“Don’t seem right,” she said, her sharp features softening in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “’Twas all right to go when the missus lived, but now….”

Ned sighed. His wife had been dead nearly two years now and Mrs Tucknott had gotten some romantic notion about him being heartbroken. Strange how such a no-nonsense woman could get such a maggoty idea into her head, but there you were.

It was true that Ned had sunk into a depression in the months after Sarah died, but not for the reasons Mrs Tucknott believed.

No one knew what a fool Ned had been, that Sarah had seduced him and tricked him into marrying her, telling him she was pregnant after one careless, drunken fumble together. There was no child and never had been in the ten years they’d been married. It hadn’t been a tender relationship. Ned couldn’t trust her after that initial betrayal, and Sarah had never seemed to care much. She even said so. She had what she wanted—the farm, security, and comfort—and, apparently, that was enough.

Not that she hadn’t worked. She’d been fit and strong and had helped run the farm, pulling her weight and more besides, but there had been no love, no affection. Even when Ned had tried to make a friend of her, realising they were tied till death did them part, Sarah had no interest in him, even less so in the physical side of their relationship. She did her wifely duty, but took no pleasure in it, so Ned could find none either.

When she died, he’d felt numb. Anger was there, that she’d gone and they’d nothing to show for it, but it was more regret for what might have been, if either of them had been different people. Where was he to meet another woman now, what with the farm to run? Even if his marriage hadn’t made him wary of trying again, Sarah had sapped his confidence in himself and others. Though he knew he must, the will to try again was hard to muster. Empty years yawned before him and made his chest ache with loneliness.

“Mrs Tucknott, I will still be here when ye get back, and I’ve Rufus for company. Rachel has invited me for Christmas Day, and I’ll likely stay on a day or two after.”

The woman sighed, something like relief in her eyes, though she still looked troubled.

“You’ll write and tell your sister you’ll be going, then?” she said, with a note of suspicion.

Ned applied himself to his dinner and nodded. He didn’t like to say a barefaced lie out loud.

“I suppose yon farmhands will take care of the place in the meantime?” she added, still sounding a little unconvinced.