Free Home for Christmas by Lizzie Lane Page A

quarters due to the amount of courting couples locked in tight embraces in its darkness.
    ‘I’ll see you both later.’ She beat a hasty retreat before either of them had the chance to ask her to join them; her aunt for some kind of female affinity she did not feel, her father as a shield against his sister-in-law’s romantic notions.
    ‘Leave the door open,’ her father called after her.
    Lydia smiled. Her father wasn’t often nervous, but he was when Aunt Iris was around.
    Lydia could see into the study from the safety of the first floor landing. Being careful his sister-in-law didn’t see, her father looked up at her and grimaced.
    ‘Now, Iris,’ he said, adopting his very best bedside manner. ‘I do apologise, but that, I am afraid, is the way it is. Lydia and I have a previous engagement.’
    Iris Wilson’s generous chest heaved with an equally large sigh.
    ‘The thought of catching another train and travelling all the way back …’
    She rolled her eyes in his direction before tipping the sherry down her throat.
    Unable to suggest how the journey might be improved, Doctor Miller instantly poured her another.
    ‘As I said, Iris, you should have sent a telegram or telephoned to say you were coming. I know you are more in tune with modern inventions than you make out.’
    Iris sprang to her feet. ‘I quite understand, Eric! My company is not required. I have no option but to catch the next train back.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Iris, but if you had contacted me I would have told you not to come.’
    ‘I do not use telephones. I do not use any of these newfangled devices if I can possibly avoid it. Anyway, they’ll never last.’
    ‘People said that years ago about the steam train, but you managed to get on that.’
    Her jet and marcasite earrings jangled with indignation.
    ‘Don’t be facetious, Eric. And by the way, my glass is empty.’
    Eric apologised and refilled her glass. After replacing the decanter in its tantalus, he paced up and down the room. It was something he couldn’t help doing when Iris was around, afraid she might pounce on him if he dared to stand still.
    If he could read her mind, he would see he wasn’t far wrong.
    ‘I haven’t got a tantalus,’ she said, eyeing the wooden contraption that locked the three bottles within its grasp so the servants wouldn’t be tempted. ‘I think I should buy one. Servants are so dishonest. Food, drink, linen and silver; they’ll steal anything if they can.’
    Eric gulped back his drink. If he hadn’t done so, he would have lost his temper. She talked about servants as though they were another species of human being; similar but different.
    When Iris Wilson looked at the man her sister had married, something inside her melted. If only he’d listened to what they were
truly
saying all those years ago, he wouldn’t have married Emily, the wild one, Emily, the rebel; perhaps, just perhaps, he might have married her instead.
    She pushed the upstart thought away, determined to keep her composure. No matter her true feelings back then, she had erected a barrier between herself and the outside world. A woman running the family business had to be better than the men she dealt with. Men for the most part expected women to be docile, intent only on marriage and having children. Rarely did they come across an independent woman who could wheel and deal with abundant confidence and quite regularly beat tough tradesmen at their own game.
    When eventually she realised that her unfeminine attitude put men off, youth and marriage had passed her by. Not that she’d cared much for any of the men who had attempted to woo her. Besides, she’d never forgotten that first fluttering of her heart when she’d set eyes on her sister’s fiancé.
    When he was left with a young child to bring up, she had entertained the hope that Eric might consider her as a suitable companion for himself and a mother for Lydia. But Eric had been devastated at the loss of his wife and