Christmas At Hollywell (The Seldon Park Christmas Novella Book 4) Read online

  Christmas At Hollywell

  A "Tales From Seldon Park" Christmas Novella

  By Bethany M. Sefchick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016

  Bethany M. Sefchick

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

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  About the author

  For those who love the magic and romance of the holiday season....

  Chapter One

  Late December 1820

  Just before Christmas

  Hollywell Castle

  Cornwall, England

  The snow began to fall harder as the well-sprung coach approached the road that veered off towards Hollywell and Lady Catherine Oakley could not have been happier. She would be absolutely delighted to finally be free of this dratted conveyance for more than a few hours at a time while stopped at a coaching inn, especially as the cold seeped into her bones far more easily these days. At five and thirty, her best days were likely behind her, but she did not think she was quite yet old enough to suffer the same aches and pains as a woman in her fifth or sixth decade. However, her body seemed to have a different opinion on the subject.

  Then again, what did Catherine know of such matters? Her mother was long gone, as was most of her family, even the extended members. Her husband too, had departed this Earth, though he would have been of little use in this matter since he belonged to a time far removed from her reality, and had thought it unseemly to discuss anything regarding bodily matters. Well, other than whether or not she was with child of course - which she never had been.

  Lord Donald Barrington, the now late Earl of Crossbury, had been nearing four and sixty when he had married his just barely eighteen-year-old bride, his hopes for an heir fading quickly and his wedding to Catherine viewed largely as a final chance to change his fortunes. Needless to say, they had not conceived a child together, though Catherine was convinced that had less to do with her than it did with her husband's age and his insistence upon bedding her only once a month when an old Romani woman he relied upon for such advice assured him that Catherine was "ripe." Catherine hadn't much cared for the crone, suspecting from the first that the woman was not, in fact Romani, but rather English and that she had designs upon the earl herself. Not that it would have done the other woman any good. Catherine might not have loved her husband but she had cared - at least to some degree - about his welfare and she had not trusted the old crone as far as she could see her, which, given the woman's intense dislike of Catherine, was usually not very often.

  The woman, a Madame Nicolescu, had been the first person to be removed from her husband's staff when Donald had passed and left Catherine in the unenviable position of the dowager Countess of Crossbury at the tender age of three and twenty. Other Crossbury staff members had followed, of course, particularly as Catherine had become more adept at managing her own affairs with the help of new advisors hired for her by her old friend, Lord Nicholas Rosemont, the current Duke of Candlewood. However it was the removal of Madame Nicolescu that had given Catherine the most pleasure.

  Even now, the mere thought of the woman made Catherine shudder. There hadn't been a single thing about the woman that Catherine had found endearing and, if anything, she had often wished the woman would simply vanish from the face of the Earth. Which, alas, was not to be, despite how often Catherine prayed for such a fate to befall the other woman. It was also little surprise to her that Madame Nicolescu was not really of any sort of noble birth and was little better than a whore who played skilled confidence games with wealthy men, hoping to snare a fortune - and perhaps even a husband - for herself as the years passed.

  So the "Madame" was not really a Madame at all.

  However, Catherine had eventually borrowed that part of the woman's name when - faced with the desire to strike back at a group of old tabbies who had referred to Catherine an "old and decrepit fortune hunter" at a rather elite social gathering - Catherine had picked up her quill and began writing for the Town Tattler gossip rag under the name Madame C. So perhaps, in the end, Madame Nicolescu, was of some use to Catherine after all.

  Catherine hadn't meant to pursue a career as a gossip columnist, of course. In fact, she had never been one for gossip at all, and instead preferred more intelligent pursuits. However, as an all-but-powerless dowager with few friends, she had not known what else to do in the face of such cruelty that might, in time, bring her ruin. Or at the very least, see her shunned from the highest reaches of Society. At least she hadn't known until Candlewood had come to call one spring morning and for some reason, Catherine had poured out her troubles to him - likely because he was an old friend and she had no one else to turn to with the matter.

  It was Candlewood who had eventually coaxed Catherine into writing the column in a witty, "lady about Town" manner who, unlike other gossip columnists of the day, was actually a member of the Upper Ten Thousand and not afraid to admit the truth of her status. Under the duke's guidance, Catherine had learned to pick and choose what gossip to include, what style to write in, and just how much of herself to reveal at any one time.

  The column was a smashing success and suddenly, Catherine found herself being invited to the most exclusive of parties. At first, it was largely because of Candlewood's doing, but eventually, after Catherine was convinced to pen a few well-placed stories about herself, the invitations arrived because of who she was and how "mysterious" the dowager Countess of Crossbury was rumored to be by the now-adored Madame C. Suddenly, Catherine had more invitations than she could accept and her circle of friends grew widely. She was wealthy and popular, with an enormous fortune that she could not possibly spend in several lifetimes. It was a far different life than Catherine had led with Donald, and she considered herself very blessed to be enjoying such good fortune.

  The venture was as delightful as it was draining and until recently, Catherine had enjoyed herself immensely. Yet over the last year, she found the pleasure she took in her work slowly vanishing and being replaced by something cold and empty that she could not define. Something that left her yearning for more and reminded her of the old days when she had been little more than a decoration for Donald's arm. Catherine found herself wishing for something that was real and true in her life, and not just printed words upon a page, images of a life that she lived but did not seem to be truly hers.

  Still, Catherine could not deny that the very first column she had written had given her a rush of true pleasure when she had seen her words in the paper for the first time.

  The printed words, penned by Catherine's own hand, had helped her to defend herself from the growing insinuation that it had been Catherine herself who had seduced the elderly earl in hopes of him dying early to secure his fortune and bearing him an heir to keep all that she had gained in the marriage. The truth of her marriage was actually very far removed from that awful accusation, but the more time that passed, the more the lie was accepted as the truth, and Cat
herine, who was otherwise defenseless had struck back the only way she knew how - assisted by none other than The Bloody Duke himself.

  It had been a beneficial arrangement for everyone. For a time, anyway.

  Now, Catherine was becoming more than a little restless with her life, even after all she had gained over the last few years. She desired a change of some sort; she knew that much. She simply had no idea what she wanted or even how to go about figuring out what she desired. She had never been asked what she wanted from life, but rather simply told what she should want. As a young woman, the choices had been taken from her and now? Catherine had no real idea how to decipher what she wanted from her life - or if she could even obtain those desires.

  For by Society standards, Catherine was old. Ancient even, at least according to some of the youngest debutantes. Catherine had never really had a Season either, so she had made few friends in London over the years, save for those she had known back in Sussex as a young girl. Those that flocked to her after she became a regular fixture in Madame C.'s column did not count, for she saw them as little better than vultures hoping to pick her apart if she were ever to stumble - which was why she had been careful never to put a foot wrong in all of her years out in Society.

  Catherine also had the problem of being viewed as frigid and not at all the sort of woman a man might be interested in bedding. Not even as mistress. That was partly, she knew, because of her advanced age, and also partly because of yet more gossip.

  Rather than being viewed by Society as a tempting widow ready for a fling, most of the young bucks and other unattached gentlemen had avoided Catherine after she came out of mourning, thinking she was unsuitable in the bedchamber given the rumors that Madame Nicolescu made certain swirled around Catherine after the other woman's departure from the Crossbury household. And in that they would likely be right, as Catherine's husband had never even fully disrobed when he had lain with her. Eventually, Catherine had learned to quietly take her seat among the wallflowers and other old dragons and tabbies of the ton. It was not perfect, but it was all she had.

  The Tattler column had provided some distraction for a time, but even that had grown repetitive over the last year or so. Nicholas had recognized her growing disquiet at the end of last Season when he had come to her for assistance with what had become known as "The Framingham Affair," when the true Framingham heir, long thought dead, had appeared and Nicholas had pretended to court the family's daughter, Eliza, in order to keep a close watch on the family.

  Nicholas had visited Catherine's home frequently back then under the cover of darkness so as not to hurt Eliza, the woman he had truly come to love during their pretend courtship. He had recognized then that Catherine had needed a change in her life and had vowed to help her find something suitable to fill her time once the situation with Eliza had resolved itself.

  In fact, it was Nicholas who had arranged for Catherine to leave London for a time and stay at Hollywell for the Christmastide season so that she might "gather her thoughts and plot a new course" as he had termed the reason for this sojourn of hers to Cornwall. The duke was concerned that life was simply passing his old friend by while she did nothing more than hide behind a desk and write about other people's lives rather than live her own.

  Catherine conceded that might be true, but then, she was no longer a countess. She was a dowager, and unfortunately, that changed her social standing quite a bit.

  As did her lack of knowing what she wanted from her life.

  After her husband's death, the Crossbury title had passed to Donald's nephew, a rather awkward man with a young family of his own who had little use for Catherine in his life either. However, likely knowing that he would precede her in death, Donald had arranged for Catherine to keep the London town home they had shared, as it was not entailed, the jewels he had purchased for her, the dowry she had entered their marriage with, as well as a generous stipend that would last her several lifetimes if she was careful.

  Catherine had been thankful for all of that, for while she was aware that Donald had never truly loved her either, he had, at the very least, respected her position as his wife and had made certain she was provided for when he was gone. The only thing that truly disappointed her was that he had not left her Hollywell, an unentailed castle that had been in her family for generations. Hollywell had come with her into the marriage and she had, she supposed, expected that the estate would be returned to her upon her husband's death, just as her dowry was. Perhaps if Donald had finished his will before he passed, the castle might have, but as it was, the unfinished document proved in court to be his last will, and the lovely old castle had passed to the new earl.

  The new earl and his family had made use of Hollywell for a time, occasionally inviting Catherine to the celebrations held there, but over time, as the man's family and circle of extended friends grew, those invitations became more infrequent until they finally stopped entirely. Despite her relative youth, Catherine was a part of the old earl's world, not the new, and gradually, she was cut off from the family completely. She hadn't even been aware that Hollywell was to be sold until after the transaction had been completed. That had been a little over a year ago and something about the loss of the castle, located on the distant coast of Cornwall, more than any of the other losses that she had suffered, had cut Catherine the most deeply.

  However this past August, Nicholas had come to her with the news that, as of late, he had become good friends with the current owner of Hollywell and had, by some miracle, made arrangements with the man for Catherine to reside at the castle from the middle of December through the end of Twelfth Night. Nicholas had assured Catherine repeatedly that the new owner, a Mr. Valette, was planning a trip to the Continent, and the man was relived to know that someone would be in residence during his possibly prolonged absence. Especially someone who would likely care for Hollywell as if the castle was their own.

  This was not a chance to reclaim her family's home, certainly. Catherine knew that. Even though she wished, by some Christmas miracle, that Twelfth Night would come and go and she would still be safely ensconced within Hollywell's thick walls. Safe inside the only place she had ever truly considered home. The place she loved above all others.

  That, she knew, was not to be. For Hollywell was owned by another now. It was no longer hers.

  However this little sojourn would be one last chance to walk the halls and feel the ancient stones beneath her feet before the new owner, a bachelor of some note she was told, began making changes to the venerable old castle and planning a family of his own. Nicholas was confident that Valette would marry soon and install a new woman as the mistress of Hollywell. If Catherine wished to visit her beloved former home, this would be her final opportunity. She was not about to refuse such a gift.

  Which was why she was in the middle of this blinding snowstorm in a swaying coach in the far reaches of Cornwall and feeling as if she might cast up her accounts at any moment. If not for the promise of Hollywell dangling before her like a Christmas goose, she would likely be tucked safely away in London in front of a roaring fire and growing old - just as Nicholas had scolded her about doing so often as of late. Despite the discomfort and danger of this trip, Catherine rather thought she much preferred Cornwall over London. Here, at least, she felt alive and much younger than her years. She felt youthful again. Free. Back in London? She would likely keep to the same routine she always had, growing old before her time. So, miserable weather and frigid conditions aside, she did prefer here to London. At least here she knew that she was not dead.

  Eventually, Catherine felt the coach make the gentle turn onto the sweeping drive that led to the castle's main gates, which was an immense relief as the snow was picking up in intensity and threatening to turn into a full-blown blizzard. Snows such as these were not common on the coast, but when they struck? They were ferocious and Catherine did not wish to be caught out in the elements any longer than she had to be, especially with the winds picking
up and rocking the coach as if it was a child's toy.

  Finally, the warm, glowing lights of the castle appeared in the distance and she let out a great sigh. She was almost home. Or home for now anyway. How she would walk away from Hollywell when the Christmastide season ended she did not know, but she would do so. For Catherine always did what was right and proper. She never shirked her duty. No matter how much it hurt.

  When the coach rolled to a stop, there was a pause and Catherine was surrounded by an almost deafening silence, as if no one here was expecting them. However she was certain it was just a trick of her mind for then she heard the clatter of the steps being lowered as the wind howled around her and the swirl of voices filling the courtyard, just as they always had when visitors arrived. Miserable as the weather was, there was something comforting and familiar about the scene and she felt herself relax a fraction.

  Finding her footing as she scrambled to her feet, Catherine allowed a footman to assist her out of the coach, her breath nearly stolen from her chest as the wind and snow lashed at her when she disembarked. If she squinted her eyes, she could see dark figures scurrying around her, unloading her trunks as quickly as possible and rushing them through the wide-open front door, which was exactly as she remembered it. Save for the lack of the customary holly wreath for the Christmastide season, however. Well, once the weather passed, she would fix that in short order. If this was to be her Christmastide home, then she would decorate the castle as she remembered it from her youth. Just one last time.

  Behind her, the coach quickly rattled off in a flurry of shouts and bellows, likely bound for the warm and cozy stables. For a moment, Catherine wondered if the new owner had changed the stables at all or if he had kept the same rough-hewn look to the wide, solid building that, while was no longer at the height of architectural fashion, was as much a part of the ancient fortress as the ornate holly leaves that had been carved into the front doors about a century before her birth.