A Christmas Promise Read online

  Though she could not deny the warmth in her stomach each time Mr. Hastings looked at her. But it was hardly her fault that her sister’s intended was unfairly handsome.

  Which was an entirely new sort of problem. When Mr. Hastings had found her in the stables, she’d been caught off guard and, like in all their interactions before, acted too much herself. He now thought Vivian was outspoken, for heaven’s sake. That had prompted her careful reevaluation of strategy. She managed the situation instead of attempting to lead it. She stayed with Mr. Hastings and Miss Tindale, offering only the blandest and safest opinions during their conversations. At the very least, she could ensure the other two were not on their own overmuch.

  “I am sorry I cannot do more,” Cassie told Vivian as she dressed for dinner four days after arriving at Hartfield Court. “But I assure you it’s for the best. Once you are entirely well, you can charm everyone.”

  “If I can ever recover,” Vivian muttered from the bed. She had only just begun to look a bit like her own self, not running to the chamber pot every hour. But her illness left her weak and frail. When she tried to stand, her legs shook and she nearly fainted.

  “You will,” Cassie reassured her, pulling on her elbow-length gloves. “Dr. Duttle said three more days at the soonest, though, and as much as I wish to relinquish my role as Vivian Bell, I’ll not do it at the cost of your health.”

  “I know,” Vivian said with a sigh. “And I am not ungrateful. I know you have done all you can.”

  “You know I would do anything for you, but I shall be glad when this is over.” When Vivian could take her rightful place at Mr. Hastings’s side and Cassie could return home to Grandpapa and her quiet life.

  She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She wore Vivian’s vivid-red dress, which Cassie would never have chosen for herself. But she admitted she looked rather well in it, with her hair swept up to the crown of her head and embellished with a bit of holly she’d found on a walk that morning, which added a bit of Christmas festivity to her look. She wondered if Mr. Hastings liked holly . . .

  Cassie tore her eyes from the mirror.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” Vivian said, a note of sadness in her voice.

  Cassie took a deep breath. This house party was all Vivian had dreamed of for weeks, and now she was missing it. The least Cassie could do was keep her thoughts from Mr. Hastings and focus on her sister. “Would you like me to send up a tray? Or just more tea?”

  Vivian made a face. “I’m afraid nothing sounds particularly appetizing at the moment.”

  “Tea it is.” Cassie forced a smile. “I will see you after, I promise. I’m certain I’ll be able to avoid disaster again.”

  * * *

  “Shall we have some music?” Mrs. Hastings called out as the party settled into the drawing room after dinner. “We’ve hardly had time in the last two days, but I would so enjoy hearing the young ladies sing.”

  “Of course. That is a splendid idea,” Miss Tindale said as Miss Marsden nodded her agreement. “I have just the song in mind.”

  Unsurprising. She likely had a hundred songs prepared for a moment such as this. But Cassie had no time for petty thoughts. Because Mrs. Hastings’s attention then turned to her. In nearly four days of pretending to be Vivian, Cassie had not thought to anticipate this.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t tonight,” she stammered. Her mind scurried to find a plausible reason. “I haven’t practiced?” she said, more of a question than she wanted it to be.

  “A true artist can create under any circumstances.” Mrs. Hastings fixed her with a stare, as if daring Cassie to argue.

  “Perhaps I might only play instead of sing.” That would be feasible. She could manage a quick, little tune.

  “Nonsense. I hear you have an excellent voice, and I should like the opportunity to judge for myself,” Mrs. Hastings said briskly.

  Cassie forced a little cough. “Truly, I think I might have a sore throat. Perhaps another night—”

  “I’ll not take no for an answer, Miss Bell.” Mrs. Hastings narrowed her eyes. “I insist.”

  Cassie opened her mouth to refuse, then stopped. Vivian would never refuse. So she shut her mouth and managed a weak nod.

  The problem lay much deeper than possessing an inadequate singing voice. Really, Cassie could sing well enough—alone. But whenever Cassie attempted to perform in front of anyone other than her immediate family, her voice . . . her voice squeaked. Badly. So badly, in fact, that the last time her mother insisted she sing in front of company—two years ago—her dim-sighted great-aunt Wilmington had insisted there was a mouse beneath her chair.

  But when Vivian was known for having a lovely voice, what was Cassie to do?

  Miss Tindale began playing her piece, a sweet folk song, her full, steady voice joining the tones of the pianoforte after a few measures. Cassie sat stiffly, hands clutched together in her lap, when Mr. Hastings caught her eye. He furrowed his brow and mouthed a few words at her. But since Cassie was as terrible at reading lips as she was at performing, his message of “Tar ewe all night” was not particularly reassuring.

  Cassie shook her head slightly, hoping Mr. Hastings would understand she had no idea what he was saying. She looked again at Miss Tindale—composed, effortless Miss Tindale—and tried to think of a plan. Perhaps she might pretend to faint. But then she would be relegated to her bed like Vivian, which would defeat the entire purpose of this charade. The same was true of persisting with her lie about a sore throat.

  Her only choice was to perform—and hope with every bone in her body that her voice was no longer frightened of people.

  Miss Tindale finished her song to great applause, and Miss Marsden began her performance, her light and airy voice barely audible above the pianoforte. Cassie’s heart thumped faster and faster, nearly leaping into her throat as Miss Marsden curtsied and moved back to her chair.

  “Miss Bell,” Mrs. Hastings said, nodding to the instrument.

  Cassie somehow seated herself before the pianoforte and rested her fingers on the keys. She’d chosen her song, “Whilst Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night,” very carefully. First of all, it was a song she could recall by memory, as she hadn’t brought her music to Hartfield Court. And secondly, she hoped playing a familiar carol would soften Mrs. Hastings’s opinion of her. This was a Christmas party, after all.

  Cassie glanced up for a brief moment, spotting Mr. Hastings at the back of the chairs. He had stood sometime during the other performances and now crossed his arms, eyeing her in an unnerving way.

  She pressed her fingers down into a chord, played a few measures. At least her fingers remembered the notes well enough. Then there was nothing for it but to start singing.

  “Whilst Shepherds wa-atched their flocks by night.” The first line went fairly smoothly, though her voice cracked slightly on a high note. She went on. “All seated on the ground.”

  That wasn’t bad, really. Her voice was not nearly as confident as Miss Tindale’s, but neither was anyone covering their ears.

  “The Angel of the Lord came down and glory shone all round.” Perhaps she could do this. Survive, that was. Another few stanzas and she could retreat to her chair.

  “Fear not, said he—” Her voice jumped, leaping into a squeak that would have made dogs howl. She swallowed hard. “Fear not, said he for mighty dread—” Another squeak, higher and louder. Cassie’s eyes flew up and she locked gazes with Mr. Hastings for a brief moment. He straightened, alarmed, no doubt, by the blazing panic on her face.

  But all she could do was finish the song.

  “For mighty dread had seized their troubled mi—” The sound that next escaped her mouth would have put a dying animal to shame. Cassie slammed shut her mouth, her hands frozen over the keys. What was worse, fleeing in embarrassment or continuing to sing in embarrassment?

  A crash sounded across the room. Someone gasped as the entire party turned in their chairs, and Cassie stood abruptly, the stool skittering awa
y from her knees.

  “Blast.” Mr. Hastings put his hands to his waist, looking down at the floor near his feet, where shattered pieces of ceramic lay.

  “Roland.” Mrs. Hastings stood, her face aghast. “My vase.”

  “I am sorry, Mother. It was an accident.” He sounded truly apologetic. “I know you liked it.”

  Mrs. Hastings pursed her lips, as if holding back a scolding. “No matter,” she finally managed, then called for servants to clean up the mess.

  Mr. Hastings turned to Cassie and—he winked. Winked.

  Had he done it on purpose?

  The party settled back in their chairs, and Cassie cleared her throat. “Perhaps I might finish another time. I find my nerves are a bit rattled.”

  “Of course, dear,” the matronly Mrs. Marsden assured her, and Cassie hurried back to her seat. Safe. For now, at least.

  Mrs. Hastings still did not look particularly happy, especially as the guests broke into groups for cards and conversation. It would be best for Cassie to avoid her the rest of the night. In fact, it would likely be best to avoid everyone for the remainder of the night.

  When all eyes were occupied, she slipped from the drawing room, grateful the door’s hinges were far better oiled than her voice. She couldn’t go upstairs yet; Vivian would be full of questions as to why she was so early. Cassie retreated down the hallway until she found a rounded alcove lined with windows. She sat on the ledge and leaned against the cool glass, closing her eyes.

  But laughter echoed down the corridor, invading her quiet. Cassie peered around the corner. A figure stood outside the drawing room, shutting the door behind him. Broad shoulders and a mess of dark hair. Mr. Hastings.

  She shrank back into her alcove. Perhaps he would go upstairs and bypass her altogether. But his footsteps came closer until he rounded the corner and spotted her.

  “There you are.” His eyes flickered in the candlelight. “I wanted to see you were all right.”

  His kindness tugged at her heart. He was concerned—for her.

  She forced a smile. “Yes, perfectly all right. Better now that I do not have to sing.”

  He stepped forward. “Are you certain? I am sorry my mother pressed you so. If you do have a sore throat—”

  Cassie shook her head fervently. “Oh, I’m not ill, I assure you. It’s just this cold weather.”

  He nodded, looking out the window. “I daresay it will snow soon, which would delight Mother.”

  “I did not take your mother for an enthusiast of snow.” Cassie wasn’t particularly fond of the stuff herself. It was lovely, she supposed, but she did not relish the feel of it melting in her boots.

  Mr. Hastings gave a short laugh. “I would not word it that way. She thinks snow is unfailingly romantic, and that it will surely make me fall in love at last.”

  Cassie blinked. What was she to say to that? Perhaps a change in subject was best. “Thank you.” The words nearly burst from her.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

  “For earlier,” she said quickly. “For distracting everyone so I did not need to finish my song.”

  “Oh, that.” He sat on the window ledge across the alcove from her. He was not particularly close, but Cassie’s pulse ticked faster. “I’m afraid I cannot claim credit for rescuing you. I was born clumsy, you see.”

  A smile tugged at Cassie’s lips. “And you somehow happened to shatter a vase halfway across the room?”

  “It’s a dreadful curse,” he said with a grin.

  “Well, I shall thank you all the same, especially since your mother seemed upset at the loss.”

  He waved that off. “She’ll be glad for it when we go to London again and she has a reason to shop for another.”

  “You’ll attend the Season, then?” Why did that thought make London suddenly more appealing?

  Mr. Hastings shrugged. “If I must.”

  She wanted to press him further, ask why he seemed reluctant to go. Because it looked as if they had that very much in common. But Vivian adored London, so it would not make sense for Cassie to suddenly have developed a dislike for it. She sighed. This pretense was getting more and more difficult by the day.

  “Why the sigh?”

  “Nothing,” she said hastily. What would he say if he knew she was ruminating over the unexpected difficulties of convincing him she was her sister?

  He narrowed his eyes, and she scrambled for something else to say. “That is, I admit I am missing home, and my family. I’ve never spent Christmas away before.”

  “But you have your sister, at least.”

  “Yes, of course. But I shall miss my grandfather especially.”

  He nodded. “You said you are close to him.”

  He remembered that? She’d mentioned it days ago.

  “Yes,” she said, tugging up her gloves. “He always makes Christmas special. The song I played is a favorite of his, and he insists I play it every year.”

  Mr. Hastings smiled. “My father loved Christmas as well. We often hosted a dinner on Christmas Day, and Father enjoyed having his friends and family around him.” His smile faded. “You said the other day that your grandfather’s parrot made him feel young again, helped him relive his favorite memories. I think Christmas did that for my father.”

  Cassie wrapped her arms around herself, trying to remember what she knew of the Hastings family. When had the elder Mr. Hastings died?

  “Your father . . .” she began, uncertain how to phrase her question.

  “He died a year ago, before Christmas.” Mr. Hastings leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees. “It makes this time of year difficult, especially for my mother.” He swallowed. “Though I also miss him, of course.”

  She hardly knew what to say to that. She bit her lip, ready to make an attempt, but thankfully he spoke before she could say something horribly inadequate.

  “This house party has been good for my mother, though,” he said. “She takes a strange amount of joy in planning menus and activities.”

  “What does your mother have planned for tomorrow?” she asked. “I feel I ought to be prepared, for obvious reasons.”

  Mr. Hastings grinned, and the unexpected seriousness of their conversation lifted. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t the faintest. I find it better to leave the planning to her, because she does everything how she wishes no matter what I say. Saves me a great deal of time and effort.”

  “If you had your say, what would we be doing?”

  “We wouldn’t be having this house party, to start.”

  She blinked. “Oh.”

  He grimaced. “I am sorry, I did not mean it like that. I’ve enjoyed the past few days, for the most part. But I will admit I had no hand in organizing this party, as I had no idea of its existence until the day I arrived from London.”

  Was that why he had been in a bad humor when their trunks had been switched? But she could hardly blame him. She hadn’t wanted to come either, after all. She almost said that aloud but again stopped herself. Because Vivian had wanted to come.

  “Then besides the preferable option of there being no house party at all,” she said lightly, “what activity would you choose for tomorrow? Because if the host does not enjoy himself, I cannot think why a house party would be worth the effort.”

  He laughed. “You and my mother have very different views on house parties.” He seemed to consider the question more seriously. “Anything outdoors, I suppose. I cannot stand to be cooped up, even when it is cold.” He paused. “Perhaps archery.”

  “Are you good at it?”

  “If you had asked me as a youth, I would have boasted endlessly about my prowess with a bow. But now I cannot say I’ve touched one in years.”

  “That sounds like a problem to be rectified,” she said. “We have the time now, after all.”

  He leaned back against the window. “You underestimate my mother’s abilities. You’ve seen how good she is at filling all seconds of the day.”


  “True enough.” But she could not help but think that if he was forced to attend every event, he might as well enjoy one of them.

  Voices echoed down the corridor as the drawing room opened once again. “Roland?” Mrs. Hastings called.

  Roland—Mr. Hastings, that was—raised a finger to his lips and grinned. Cassie held her breath. She wanted to be caught in a compromising situation even less than he did. Although perhaps that was one way for Vivian to achieve her marriage goals.

  Footsteps moved towards them, and the two of them dared not move. Cassie’s eyes went to his, as if pulled by a current. He stared back at her, the amusement in his expression shifting to something . . . different.

  “Roland?” Mrs. Hastings called again, a sharp edge to her voice.

  But Roland did not move. That is, his body did not. His eyes, however, wandered her face, slowly, curiously. And she found she could not look away.

  Mrs. Hastings’s footsteps moved, back inside the drawing room. When the door shut behind her, it snapped the pull between them, and Cassie drew herself backward, bracing her hands on either side of the window ledge. What had that been?

  Roland cleared his throat. “I am sorry for making you hide. But I thought we both needed a respite from my mother.”

  “You are not wrong,” she murmured, still attempting to collect her thoughts. She’d never felt . . . felt . . . whatever that had been between them. She looked back up at him, as if to test herself, to see if it would happen again. He offered a slight smile, and although her stomach warmed slightly, she did not wish to fling herself into his arms like she had only moments before.

  It was his fault, she decided, for being so kind and good-looking. Why, he likely had ladies flinging themselves at him with every flash of his smile. She only needed to be on her guard, that was all. At least with the two of them together out here, she was assured Miss Tindale was most certainly not with him.

  “So tell me,” Roland said, as if his mother had not just nearly caught them together, “what activity would you choose for tomorrow, if you could?”