The Flame and the Frost

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

An enthralling story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1957 and now available in eBook for the first time. Readers of Gold for the Gay Masters and Bride of Doom will need no recommendation to The Flame and the Frost, which follows the fortunes of orphan, Charlotte Goff. After narrowly avoiding being run down by her coach, Charlotte is adopted by the noble widow Lady Chase. Taken into her home, Charlotte grows to become an educated and beautiful young woman who catches the eye of Lady Chase's handsome, but heartless son, Vivian. Seduced by him, Charlotte finds herself pregnant, and is forced into marriage with the rake by her benefactor. After years of misery and heartache, Charlotte meets MP Dominic Unwin, a man who's friendship makes her yearn for more... But is there more to him than she knows? This superb drama of Victorian society life tells an unforgettable tale of passion and deceit, love and misery, and the perils of finding a life of happiness...

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 272

Sample

On that bitterly cold afternoon of January, in the year 1870, London was enveloped in a thick yellow fog.

Sounds were muffled. Boys holding flares ran ahead of slow moving vehicles. The drivers tried to lead their bewildered horses.

Figures emerged suddenly out of the blanketing vapours, bumped into each other and moved back muttering apologies. By four o’clock, darkness had fallen. Few were out. Sensible folk stayed by their firesides. It was raw and uncomfortable out of doors.

A girl, aged about twelve, moved slowly and uncertainly along the Thames Embankment not far from Battersea Bridge. She was lost. She had gone out an hour ago while there was still light, to buy a reel of cotton for her aunt who took in dressmaking. They occupied the ground floor of a shabby house in the Pimlico Road.

Charlotte had not yet bought the cotton. Having a penny in the pocket of her pinafore which she still wore under a hastily donned coat – she had gone further afield, lured by the anticipation of filling a somewhat empty little stomach with a few sweets. Mr. Ingleby’s confectionery shop was only two blocks away. But Charlotte, surprised and somewhat frightened by the swirling fog, missed the turning and now found herself actually alongside the river. The dim lamplights made no impression in such thick darkness. Charlotte tried several times to recross the main road, but each time she stepped off the kerb, she was forced back by the sound of clip-clopping horses’ hooves, as some vehicle loomed out of the shadows.

She had a little hood over her head but no gloves. She was rapidly growing colder. The poisonous gases of the “peasouper” made her eyes smart. She coughed and gasped and the tears were not far away. She wondered what Aunt Jem would say. Poor Aunt Jem – she would be waiting for the red cotton and unable to proceed with the new merino dress for Miss Potter. It had been promised for tomorrow morning because Miss Potter was off to Brighton to visit her newly-married sister. She would be so disappointed if Aunt Jem failed her. But Aunt Jem would sit up all night, sewing and pressing and finishing the dress with those fine, tiny stitches which Charlotte thought so wonderful.

The child knew that the effort would be bad for her aunt whose eyesight was rapidly deteriorating. Miss Darnley suffered from dreadful headaches. Sometimes she could hardly go on with all that endless sewing. Poor Aunt! She was the sole support of the little household which consisted of herself, and Charlotte who was her orphaned niece. Then there was Aunt Jem’s only brother, Albert, who had lately come to live with them. He was a widower. At one time he had been comfortably off with a little business in Shepherd’s Bush. But the business failed after Uncle Albert’s wife died. In her lifetime she had stood between him and his weakness for drink. After her death, he went downhill, got into debt and had to sell up in order to appease his creditors. He had only enough money left to pay his sister, Jemima, ten shillings a week for board and lodging, which barely kept him. But he was a kindly, harmless man when sober. As far back as Charlotte could remember, Uncle Albert had been especially kind to her; reading story books or taking her out for walks while Miss Darnley plied her trade as a dressmaker. Charlotte, in fact, loved Uncle Albert except when he had a drop too much and his breath smelt of beer when he kissed her, or tickled her cheek with his long drooping moustaches.

Charlotte wished heartily that she had waited till Uncle Albert got home and let him go and buy the red cotton. How could she be so foolish as to miss her way like this within a few hundred yards of home? Neither she nor Aunt had dreamed the fog was so thick.

If only she could meet a policeman who would help her to find her way back. She was afraid of strange men. Aunt Jem had so often cautioned her never to speak to one. She sometimes hinted at the Fearful Things that might happen to a young, unattended girl. When Charlotte asked for an explanation it was never given. Aunt Jem just pursed her pale sad lips and said tartly:

“Never mind, miss. One day you will understand.”

Charlotte was always being told that “one day she would understand”. She lived in a constant state of being mystified. Grown-ups were forever hinting at Fearful Things in front of her. Beginning to say something and stopping, glancing slyly in her direction. Once Uncle Albert had come home rather merry, and started to tell his sister about a “young lady who had been taking a glass of port and lemon with him at The Three Bells”. What a fine bustle she had, and violet kid boots and gloves. Aunt had interrupted, her cheeks red, and said:

“Be quiet, Albert. In front of the child. You ought to be ashamed.”

But what he ought to be ashamed of was never made clear to Charlotte. By nature she was intelligent and inquisitive. But when she appealed for explanation as to why she could not hear more about the young lady in The Three Bells, Aunt clicked her teeth and muttered: “Young lady, indeed! I know better!” Uncle Albert laughed and winked at Charlotte who was promptly sent to bed because she innocently winked back.

Charlotte, however, was deeply attached to her aunt. And Aunt Jem loved her in her way, quite fondly, considering her cynical mistrust of human affection.

Life had not been kind to Jemima Darnley. First of all, the only man she had ever cared for jilted her cruelly, after which she had lost both her parents and had to take in dressmaking for a living. Then Lottie, her only sister (Charlotte’s mother), a beautiful girl, happily married to Oliver Goff, a valet in the service of a duke, died tragically when Charlotte was three. Oliver had been taken ill in Paris where he was with his master at the time. Mrs. Goff rushed across the Channel to see her beloved husband but he died without recognizing her. He had typhoid fever. Charlotte’s young mother contracted it and within a couple of weeks, she, too, was dead, and lay beside her husband in the cemetery in Paris.

Jemima, who had adored her sister, never recovered from this blow. Poor Lottie had been so gay and sparkling. A trifle too sparkling, at times, to suit Jemima. Charlotte closely resembled her mother. Her good-looking father, Oliver Goff, had been decently educated, and Charlotte inherited his quick grasp of things, his thirst for knowledge. From her mother, those long slender limbs and charming contrast of colouring. Eyes, the colour of dark honey, and tawny curling hair. At the moment she was over-thin and pale. Her high cheekbones jutted out. Her long fine fingers were always red – half frozen with cold from which she suffered intensely. There was no margin for rich food or piled-up fires in Aunt Jem’s household; every shilling had to be watched, every penny saved.

Charlotte received no education beyond that which her aunt and uncle gave her, but, once able to read, she read hungrily. She continued to do so and to improve her mind when her aunt was not calling upon her to help with the housework. The cooking was done by an elderly respectable woman living in this same house, who volunteered to come for a few hours daily in order that Miss Darnley should be free to ply her trade. For this assistance, Miss Darnley parted with the ten shillings a week given to her by her brother. It was a hard struggle. And, alas, Charlotte had no aptitude for sewing. Aunt Jem had hoped to train her as a dressmaker, but Charlotte could not sit still for long, and if and when she sewed, her stitches were big and her little fingers would grow hot and greasy. Aunt Jem could not risk her wrecking the delicate fabrics which belonged to her customers.

Charlotte’s footsteps quickened. She began to run through the fog. She must get home. She panted and the tears chased down her cheeks. Turning left, she stumbled off the kerb. Her terror drove her on, despite the fact that she heard the warning clatter of horses’ hooves on the roadway and caught the glow from the flare held by a lad who was leading a smart landau, pulled by two handsome greys. But suddenly she stopped, hesitated and was lost. For the horses seemed to bear down upon her with terrifying suddenness. Like spectral shapes they materialized, tossing their heads, whinnying as the coachman pulled hard on the reins. Charlotte heard the shouting of men and her own thin scream. Then she was knocked down and she lost consciousness.

Charlotte recovered to find herself in the comparative warmth and shelter of a well-padded carriage. She was lying on the seat, her head pillowed in the lap of a woman richly dressed in black velvet, with sable-lined cloak. A sable-trimmed bonnet framed a noble and beautiful face which Charlotte was never throughout her life to forget. It was that of Eleanora, Lady Chase, the subject of several of Sir John Millais’ most famous portraits. In the same year that Millais was elected a Royal Academician, Eleanora Chase’s portrait with her small son, Vivian, standing by her side, became the rage of London. It now hung over the fireplace in the dining-room of Clunes,—the Chase family seat in Hertfordshire.

But for the last six years Lady Chase had been living in retirement from which she emerged only occasionally, mainly from a sense of duty to her son, Vivian. Vivian’s father, Lord Chase, had been attached to the 13th Light Dragoons and mortally wounded in the Crimea. Since then, Lady Chase had devoted herself entirely to the boy. Vivian was now seated beside her. The landau had just brought them from a luncheon party. They were returning to their house in Eaton Square, trying to fight the regrettable fog. When the coachman pulled in the horses and the landau stopped, it pitched Lady Chase into her son’s arms. Startled, she leaned out of the window, and saw to her consternation that one of the horses had knocked down a little girl. She at once ordered that the child be lifted into the carriage, although Vivian protested.

“Really, Mama, she may be verminous! No gently-nurtured child would be walking alone on the Embankment.”

His mother chided him.

“Pray remember, Vivian, my darling boy, the quality of mercy.”

Young Lord Chase shrugged his shoulders, crossed his arms and sat watching gloomily while his mother’s orders were carried out. Charlotte’s insensible form was lifted on to the cushioned seat.

“Home, Perkins,” commanded Lady Chase.

Vivian pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of the dove-grey coat which he was wearing, and interested himself in smoothing the curled brim of his fine top hat.

Then Charlotte opened her eyes. She stared up at the face of the woman who bent so solicitously over her.

“Aunt Jem,” she whispered.

The landau moved on. Lady Chase, with her own lace-edged handkerchief dabbed gently at a cut on the child’s left cheek. It was bleeding. A nasty bruise was already swelling on the white forehead. The shabby cloak was streaked with mud but Lady Chase spoke to Charlotte as tenderly as she would have done to any child of her own.

“There, poor little creature, do not be alarmed. You are safe now, and in my care.”

Charlotte sat up. Her head was swimming but she had the youthful faculty of being able with rapidity to throw off the effects of such an accident as this. In the gloom of the landau she could barely see the occupants, but she noted the saint-like loveliness of the face which bent down to hers. Charlotte blinked and gasped. Such a fine lady! – and this splendid carriage – how came she to be in it?

Lady Chase explained to her.

“Do you feel better, my little one?” she murmured.

“Much better,” whispered Charlotte and stared through her lashes at the youth on the opposite seat. With a child’s natural curiosity she admired his finery, and thought how handsome he was. But Vivian glanced out of the window as the coach moved slowly through the thickening fog, towards Eaton Square.

Lady Chase pulled a little gold-stoppered bottle from her pocket, uncorked it, and shook a few drops of scent on to Charlotte’s forehead. This she smoothed with her long delicate fingers.

“Lie still, child, you must be in a daze. Why are you out in such bitter weather and unattended?”

Charlotte suddenly gasped:

“Oh, lawks-a-mercy, Aunt Jem will be waiting for her red cotton. She has to finish Miss Potter’s dress tonight. Oh, I must go home immediately.”

Lady Chase, only vaguely comprehending, shook her head.

“You are not fit to walk yet awhile. I shall see that you have dry clothes and a cordial before you are taken home. But how is it possible that your Mama ever let you venture forth in such a fog?”

“I have no mother,” said Charlotte. “No father either,” she added sorrowfully.

Eleanor Chase touched her son on the shoulders.

“Do you hear that, Vivian? This poor little girl is an orphan. How very sad!”

It did not seem sad to Lord Chase who had gone into a reverie and was considering the beauties of a certain young woman of quality who had excited his fancy during the luncheon.

Soon after Vivian’s sixteenth birthday, less than a year ago, he had been initiated into the mysteries of sex by a pretty servant girl at Eton College where his lordship was receiving his education. Today he had been greatly smitten by the charms of the young lady seated next to him. It annoyed him that he was forced to live under the roof of so saintly and righteous a being as his widowed mother. All the world adored Eleanor Chase. But her only child was a supreme egotist; he was fast growing out of control. He had a callous and deceitful streak which made him unpopular once people became familiar with him. But his mother was blind to his true disposition. It was his boast to the “young bloods” who were his friends that he could “twist dear Mama round his little finger”.

He enjoyed these jaunts to London when for his sake alone, Mama emerged from her retirement. He enjoyed life at Clunes only when the great house was filled with friends. Much to his mother’s regret, he inherited none of his father’s fondness for country pursuits. He rode well but was neither a good shot nor a keen fisherman.

As he followed his mother into the well-lighted hall where two powdered footmen waited upon them, Vivian wondered how he could persuade Mama to take up permanent residence in Eaton Square. The red-haired young miss who had excited his fancy at the luncheon was, he knew, resident in town.

Vivian handed hat, cloak and gloves to one of the footmen and simulated an interest in the little girl who was now able to walk beside her ladyship into the library.

“I trust you are none the worse,” he said in his haughty voice.

Charlotte bobbed a curtsy. She looked up at the tall young gentleman, her lashes fluttering. Vivian’s imperiousness overwhelmed her. She thought that he looked as splendid as a prince in one of the fairy books read to her by Uncle Albert. Yes, he was princely with his well-pomaded golden waves of hair, his heavy-lidded eyes, blue as turquoises – and the flashing ring on the hand which rested on his waist. A hand as slender and white and womanish as his mother’s.

Lady Chase unclasped her sable-trimmed cloak and handed it to her maid.

“We must find something to fit this child, or wrap her in one of my shawls, and then send her home in the carriage. Her dress is soaked through. She fell in the gutter,” Lady Chase told the maid.

“My lady, she shouldn’t be standing in her muddy boots on your carpet –” began the grey-haired Hannah who was privileged, having been long in the service of the Chase family. Hannah was fond of his young lordship but had never been quite taken in by his facile charm. But my lady admonished her servant.

“Tush, Hannah, the child is God’s creature, as are you or myself. She shall not be denied the comfort of our fireside. See – the rent in her stockings – the blood. She is so small and so brave. She neither cries nor complains.”

“I could take her down to the servants’ hall –” began Hannah with a severe look at the bedraggled Charlotte.

“She shall stay here. I, myself, will bandage her,” said Lady Chase coldly. “Be so good as to fetch hot water, towels, and my medicine-chest.”

Hannah curtsied and departed, muttering.

“Pray pull the bell, Vivian, and order the fire to be made up. It is chilly in here,” added Lady Chase.

Charlotte did not think it cold. She found herself in a warm and wonderful world. A world of magnificence hitherto unknown to her. Despite bruises and cuts and the shock of the accident, she had hardly suffered. She was entranced by the marvels that she now gazed upon. The heavy satin curtains shutting out the fog. The hothouse flowers. The thick rugs on the polished floor. The splendid pictures against dark crimson-papered walls. Over the mantelpiece hung a great French gilt mirror with candelabra in which six tall candles were burning like golden spears of light. There were handsomely shaded lamps elsewhere. The perfume of smouldering pine logs was pleasant to her nostrils, as was the lingering scent of violets from Lady Chase’s hair. Fascinated, the child regarded the wondrous rings sparkling on my lady’s hands. Her smart bustle, the silky-brown curls only just threaded with silver, falling on either side of her face. Such a wonderful face, like a sad cameo. Charlotte was intrigued by it. Indeed, she was dazed by all that she saw and most of all by the thousands of books. Handsome leather-bound volumes reaching as high as the ceiling. This was the library. Charlotte could not resist uttering an excited exclamation.

“Oh, my lady, what splendiferous books and so many of them!”

Lady Chase smiled down at her.

“Do you like books, then, my little one?”

Charlotte bobbed and blushed and nodded. Lady Chase felt it was strange that a small creature of this class should be so interested in reading-matter. She remarked upon it to her son. He, spreading his hands to the blaze from the logs, yawned a little.

“I suppose some of these paupers have brains,” he drawled.

“Vivian!” admonished his mother and shook her head as though at a naughty child.

Vivian strolled out of the library and into the dining-room to pour himself out a glass of wine, because he dared not order it to be brought to him at this hour in front of his mother. He fell to thinking about his red-haired young lady and the exciting curve of her bosom under her sky-blue taffeta dress. He flung himself into a chair, stretched his long legs and wondered how he could get out of this house without being discovered, once Mama was abed, and go on a spree with another young gentleman who was equally thirsty for adventure.

When he returned to the library, however, he received quite a shock. For he saw a new Charlotte. She had had her cuts dressed and Hannah had found an old cashmere shawl of an Indian red which suited the child’s lovely skin. They had wrapped it around the slender figure and pinned it over one small shoulder as though it were a sari. My lady intended to put another woollen shawl over her, and thus send her home. They had taken off her wet buttoned boots and torn stockings. Her feet were bare and, so Vivian noted, like alabaster, with high arches.

She was scrupulously clean despite her poverty. And now with her face and hands washed and her long bronzed curls brushed and shining, she presented a very different picture from the mud-stained waif upon whom Vivian had first gazed.

“By gad,” he thought, “she is quite pretty.”

He drew nearer her. Amused, he let his naturally lascivious gaze wander over the girl whom he judged to be older than she was. She held promise, he could tell, of exceptional looks. She was exceedingly graceful. And never before had he seen such a pair of eyes.

“By gad,” he said again aloud, and chuckled at his hot boy’s thoughts.

Lady Chase, innocent and gentle, smiled at her son.

“Is she not sweetly pretty, dear Vivian?”

“She certainly looks better than she did,” he admitted.

Charlotte tried to thank them both and curtsy. Her bare toes caught in the fringe of the shawl which was much too long for her. She stumbled. The young man reached out and caught her. For a moment he held her up in his arms, grinning down into her rosy charming little face. She had a wonderful curve to her lips, he thought; a pity that she was not being trained as a servant girl at Clunes.

“Shall I myself take you home, little one?” he said lazily.

Charlotte, frozen with nerves, over-awed by the young gentleman who was holding her aloft, now gave a little cry.

“Pray set me down, sir.”

“Yes, put her down, Vivian. She is terrified of you,” smiled his mother, and added: “Perkins will drive her home. There is no need for you to venture out again.”

His young lordship shrugged his shoulders, set Charlotte on her feet and moved away from her. Already he had ceased to be intrigued by her childish beauty. He gloomed at the prospect of an evening playing piquet with Mama. Tomorrow term would begin. He would be quite amused to return to school and indulge in a few daring escapades in the village with his companions.

Snugly wrapped in thick wool, Charlotte was at length carried by a coachman out to the carriage. She was wildly excited. What a lot she would have to tell Aunt Jem. In her hand she clutched a box of bonbons given to her by Lady Chase. A beautiful big round box tied with rose-pink ribbon. It had a glorious rose painted upon the lid. It was the sort of box that Charlotte had seen in the windows of fine shops but never dreamed she would ever possess. As for the beautiful kind lady, she had actually kissed Charlotte on the brow and pressed a sovereign into her hand as well as the bonbons. She said that she would call upon Miss Darnley tomorrow to discuss what might be done for her niece.

“If you so love books, it would seem a pity not to help you to receive some education,” my lady said.

So, tomorrow, before her ladyship returned to the country she was going to talk to Aunt Jem. Oh, thought Charlotte, if she could but be educated. If she could but read some of those splendid books in that library; what utter bliss!

Charlotte was still in a transport, far removed from earthly things, and having almost forgotten the red cotton which poor Miss Darnley so sorely needed. The reluctant coachman set forth again in the fog which was just beginning to lift a little. As they moved towards Pimlico, the child dreamed again of all that she had just seen and of these exalted personages who had befriended her. It was well worth a few painful cuts and bruises.

The young gentleman – she thought more of Vivian than of Lady Chase, being true female – how handsome he was! The figure of the young lordship had impressed itself upon her mind. In her romantic childish way she had quite fallen in love with Vivian Chase. She was the beggar maid of the story books. He was the prince who lifted her up in his arms, laughed down at her with his light blue eyes, and turned her into a princess. Oh, if she could but return, and become not a princess but his slave. Oh, would she ever see him again?

All too soon, Charlotte found herself back in the depressing ill-lit draughty rooms which constituted her home. She was received by Aunt Jem with floods of tears and loud lamentations in which a semi-inebriated Uncle Albert joined, loudly blowing his nose.

“Dear heavens, I thought you were lost to us, stolen by some Terrible Man. I never should have let you go forth in that fog,” sobbed Miss Darnley.

The good soul was genuinely relieved to see her little niece again. She plied the child with questions, all of which Charlotte answered to her satisfaction. It was obvious that except for that cut on her forehead, a scratched cheek, and the grazed leg, she was little the worse for being knocked down. And Aunt Jem grew almost as excited as Charlotte as she drank in every detail of the child’s description of the fine carriage and the house in Eaton Square.

“Imagine!” exclaimed Miss Darnley turning to her brother, “Lady Chase and her son. They are wealthy and famous. And her ladyship means to call here to see me tomorrow. Albert, I am all of a-flutter.”

“We must polish the linoleum and the furniture,” said Mr. Darnley mournfully.

Mr. Darnley had just come from The Three Bells. His breath exuded the bitter tang of the ale he had just consumed. But nobody noticed. Miss Darnley was far too excited in what her niece was telling her.

“Oh, fancy! Albert, listen to the child’s description of the house in Eaton Square. Look – she owns a sovereign. Our Charl is rich!”

“And what about the handsome young gentleman who tossed her in the air, eh?” chuckled Mr. Darnley winking at Charlotte.

She winked back with youthful devilment, risking a reprimand from her aunt. She and her uncle had an understanding and if he was in liquor she did not realize it. Yes, she had plenty to say about young Lord Chase. She grimaced at the threadbare carpet. Her toes sunk into the deep soft pile of the rugs in Lady Chase’s library, she said. Holding up the trailing shawl, she pirouetted, giving a performance as a fine lady,

“Hannah,” she mimicked Lady Chase’s aristocratic voice, “pray fetch the little creature a cordial –”

And she put a hand on her waist, looked through her lashes and gave a fair imitation of Vivian Chase, whereupon both aunt and uncle laughed until they wept. After which they all tasted a chocolate from the big round box, although Charlotte hated to untie the bow. She cherished the pink rose in her hands and kissed it.

“Oh, my lovely rose! Aunt Jem – it was all like one of uncle’s fairy tales. I wish – I wish I had not to come home!”

At that, silence fell. Miss Darnley looked down her long thin nose and bridled, but with sadness in her eyes. Uncle Albert sighed and turned away. Charlotte, with her natural love of beauty had been dazzled by the luxury of the great house belonging to the Chases and now saw clearly the poverty of this place. Oh, how untidy and ugly it was with the poor furniture – the bits of material, threads and pins all over the floor. The darned, coarse lace curtains looped on either side of the dusty window which looked upon the roof tops of the poor street in which they lived.

But this was the home in which Charlotte had been brought up. Here, she had received all that she had known of love and care, for she remembered neither of her parents. Charlotte was too sweet-natured to allow the feelings of Aunt Jem to be hurt. She rushed at her and flung her arms round the angular form.

“Dear, dear Aunt Jem, forgive me. I did not mean what I said, I like it here best. I would not exchange our little home for the glories of Eaton Square.”

At this, the good woman burst into tears. Uncle Albert became maudlin. They all had a good cry together. Finally Charlotte was given a bowl of bread and milk and sent to her bed. First of all Aunt Jem rubbed her chest with camphorated oil in case she had caught a cold out there in the fog. Before the candle was blown out in the icy cold bedroom, Charlotte knelt beside her aunt to thank God for her merciful escape from death under the horses’ hooves.

Charlotte lay wakeful for some time. Her injured leg and cheek felt sore. Her little mind teemed with excited memories which kept her from her usual healthy sleep. She kept seeing the beautiful grave face of Eleanor Chase; then the bold blue eyes of Vivian, Lord Chase, as he had picked her up in his arms. Would she ever, ever see him again? Blissfully she hugged the dream of enchantment to herself. Terrified lest it should for ever escape her, she lay wondering whether her ladyship would keep her word to call upon Aunt Jem tomorrow. At last Charlotte fell asleep. But her uncle and aunt talked well into the night.

Miss Jemima, whose fingers were never idle, continued to ply her needle. At last her eyes were so sore, she had to stop and . . .