“Most of the justices are corrupt, remember? There are at least a dozen of them in this county. And more than a few respect my father. Those who were appointed before the regicide remember when the Earl of Trentingham was a very powerful man.” Though he felt a little sick to his stomach, he forced a confident smile. “I’m sure Father can direct me to a justice who will happily write our names in his register even though you’re a few days shy of eighteen. I’ll give him money, and he’ll conveniently forget to ask your age. And it will be done. And you will be safe.”
“And you will be miserable.”
“I will not. You’re my friend. My best friend. I’ve always suspected that marriage to a friend might be the best sort of marriage anyhow.”
That wasn’t true—he’d never suspected anything of the kind. But it sounded good, didn’t it? He’d said it so earnestly that it sounded good to him.
“I don’t know…” She was weakening.
“Come here.” He rose and brought her up with him, moving slowly so as not to startle her. Holding her hands, he felt nothing special, nothing exciting, nothing new. Not even the spark of desire he felt with other girls, with the villagers’ daughters who’d tumbled him in his youth, and the ones he’d later tumbled himself. Being near them had been thrilling. Being near Creath was…pleasant.
He was planning to marry her, but she was still just Creath Moore, his childhood friend.
He tilted her face up and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, and still he felt nothing special.
But kissing her didn’t feel bad, either. It felt nice. Comfortable. And he couldn’t abandon her to her cousin Sir Leonard, a man who made her shiver with cold in a conservatory heated by four fireplaces.
She was sweet and kindhearted, and she didn’t deserve such a fate. “Will you marry me, Creath?”
“I suppose so.”
“Pray try to contain your excitement,” he said with a forced laugh. “Let’s go tell my parents.”
THREE
December 23
THREE DAYS INTO the Trevors’ journey, the weather took a turn for the worse.
Not that the weather had been pleasant to begin with. Chrystabel felt like she hadn’t been warm in days, and the churned-up winter roads had made for a bumpy ride. She was convinced their carriage had managed to find every rut from Bath to Bristol.
But today’s cold was something else, something malicious, with biting winds and just enough damp to make the chill penetrate down to the bone. Her fingers and toes were achingly numb, though she wore two extra pairs of stockings and kept her gloved hands bundled in her pockets. Even through leather, the lion crest pendant felt like a chip of ice in her palm. Holding it brought her little comfort today.
In short, she was thoroughly miserable. And they weren’t even in Wales yet.
When she wasn’t too busy wallowing, she was worrying. She worried for her roses, which had been carefully wrapped and lovingly secured in the baggage wagon, and for her Christmas decorations, hastily flung atop the load. At the last minute she’d decided Christmas was coming with them, Cromwell’s laws be damned.
In two days’ time, she would have her Yuletide celebration. She didn’t care where. She would decorate the carriage if it came to that.
But now she worried her treasured roses and hand-trimmed boughs might not make it to Christmas Day. Could any living thing—or recently living, in the case of the boughs—survive such bitter cold and relentless jostling?
Most of all, she worried for the servants, who were bringing up the rear in two ancient carriages with no glass in the windows. Some of their retainers had chosen to stay behind in Wiltshire, but most feared being out of work in these turbulent times. Though Chrystabel and her sister had loaned them all the spare cloaks and blankets they could find, she feared the poor dears might be icicles by day’s end.
If only Matthew had the funds to buy some decent, modern vehicles…
But then, if her brother had a great heap of money at his disposal, they wouldn’t have lost Grosmont Grange.
“L-look,” Arabel said through chattering teeth. Hugging herself tighter, she leaned toward the window. “It’s s-snowing again.”
Chrystabel’s sigh made a little puff of fog. “We ought to stop somewhere.”
“On account of this bit of fluff?” Matthew’s jaw was clenched and his posture unnaturally stiff; he was far too manly to allow himself to shiver. “Regardless, there’s nothing nearby—”
“Is that a c-castle?” Peering through the window, Arabel brightened. “Yes, just there off the road, p-peeking up through the woods. And there’s smoke rising from its chimneys. Someone m-must be home!”
Matthew leaned to see what she was talking about. “Probably just a skeleton staff who won’t want to take us in,” he muttered. “And the place isn’t ‘just off the road,’ either—it’s got to be nearly a mile away.”
“That’s certainly closer than Wales,” Chrystabel snapped, though in truth, she had no idea where they were in relation to Wales. She just knew they still had a long journey ahead of them. The ferry crossing at New Passage had been closed due to the weather, the River Severn too frozen for the ferryman to risk. Now they had to go all the way to Gloucester before they could loop around the river and head west to Grosmont Castle.
“In this weather, whoever’s at that c-castle will feel obligated to take us in, even if the owners aren’t p-p-present.” Arabel was shivering so hard that Chrystabel suspected it was half for show.
Chrystabel nodded. “Think of our staff, Matthew. We must find them shelter. If you’d rather freeze to death, you’re welcome to wait in the carriage.”
“Oh, very well,” he grumbled. “But I fear this will prove a waste of time.” He knocked on the carriage roof and told the bundled-up coachman to turn off the road, trusting the rest of the train would follow. “If we have
