A Victorian Christmas (20 page)

“But Rupert is . . . ,” the earl stammered. “And you’re on your way to India.”

“I waited at the stables until the quilt had been auctioned. My old friend Davies was good enough to place my bids.” He gave the string bean a thumbs-up, and the young man grinned from ear to ear. “Now that Rupert has relinquished his claim to Miss Ellis, I should like to state my intent to marry her myself. Will you have me, Star?”

“Grey, I—,” she tried again.

“But then you’ll have the tea
and
the cattle,” the earl said.

“And I’ll have the mill in Leeds,” Rupert put in.

“Smythe’s mill?” The earl looked at his wife. “But this isn’t at all how we planned it, Hortense.”

“The Almighty has greater plans than we can ever comprehend,” the countess said, dabbing her cheeks. “Now, do hush, darling, and give your sons permission to marry the women they love.”

“Well,” the earl huffed. “All right then. I suppose so.”

“Oh, Rupey!” Polly Smythe cried and tumbled backward in a dead faint. Her sister gave a scream as everyone rushed forward to attend the swooning girl.

Amid the chaos, Grey took the quilt from under his arm and held it out to Star. “I had to have this,” he said, “if I couldn’t have you. I love you, Star. Will you be my wife?”

The fabric crumpled between them as Star rushed into his arms. “Yes, Grey,” she said finally, “yes, I will.”

“It’ll mean a life in India.”

“Anywhere.” She clutched the wool of his coat as his hands held her close. “Anywhere with you.”

“And we probably ought to check on our investments in Texas,” he murmured against her hair. “Would you like to go home, Star?”

“My home is in your arms.”

“Come on, then,” he said, “let’s take a turn around the ballroom so that I can show off the future viscountess of Stratton. And I’ve a sleigh all ready and waiting in the stable. Would you accompany me on a ride around the estate while the others play at charades? I promise to bring you back in time for the bonfire.”

Star tapped her chin with a finger. “I don’t know,” she said. “It looks mighty cold out there.”

“It is.”

“Colder than frog legs,” they said together.

Laughing, Grey lifted his future wife into his arms and kissed her lips.

“I love you,” he said, “my shining Star of Bethlehem.”

BRACKENHURST SCONES

3 cups sifted unbleached flour

2 tbsps baking powder

½ tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

2 tbsps superfine granulated sugar

½ cup vegetable shortening

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

¾ cup buttermilk

Heavy cream

Sift dry ingredients together into a large bowl. Mix in shortening and butter until you get a moist, sandlike texture. Cover and chill for 30 minutes. Add buttermilk, gather mixture together with a fork, and turn out onto a lightly floured surface. Work together lightly, then roll dough into an oblong shape about ¾-inch thick. Place on a generously greased baking sheet and cut into 1½-inch squares. Brush with heavy cream and bake at 400 degrees for 12 to 15 minutes. (Do not overcook. Scones are done when they have risen and are golden brown and firm to the touch.)

Serve with clotted cream (Devonshire cream), whipped cream, or butter and jam.

UNDER HIS WINGS

May the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings
you have come to take refuge, reward you fully.

R
UTH 2:12

CHAPTER ONE

1870
Brackendale Manor in Cumbria,
Northwest England

A light glimmered in the kitchen window. Lord William Langford, the earl of Beaumontfort, breathed a sigh of relief, shouldered his hunting rifle, and trudged through the deep snow around the perimeter of Brackendale House. Annoyed to find his country home shut up tight the very evening before he was due to arrive from London, the earl made a mental note to have a chat with Yardley about the matter. The butler should know better than to lock all the doors and abandon the place. What if someone should need lodging?

Stamping his boots on the stone step, Beaumontfort gave the kitchen door a good pounding. There, that should register his displeasure over the entire situation. No doubt whoever had remained in the house this evening would spread the word among the permanent staff that, upon his untimely arrival in Cumbria, the earl had been miffed indeed.

“I say!” he called, giving the wrought-iron handle a jiggle. “Do be sensible and open this wretched door.”

Bad enough he’d missed his shot at a large deer poised on the shore of a half-frozen tarn at the outskirts of his property. There would be no fresh venison for the table tomorrow. An unexpected snowfall had shrouded trees and blanketed the roadway, making travel chancy at such a late hour. The whole situation had been compounded by his horse’s stumble, which nearly sent the earl head over heels and caused the poor animal to pull up lame. Leaving the creature at the deserted stables, he had trudged through the snow, with hopes of a hearty welcome from the small staff he kept in permanent residence at the House. Instead, he found his own home shut up for the night. Abominable.

Restless with the plans, ambitions, and goals that filled his London life, the earl had been felled recently by a minor illness that unexpectedly had drained him of vigor. The doctor had prescribed nothing more than a strong dose of peace and quiet. A few hours of amusement, perhaps a chat with a friend or two, and a great deal of rest would be just the ticket. Beaumontfort decided upon a visit to his country home—a place where he surely would be welcomed and tended to by his devoted staff. So where were they?

“Are you quite deaf?” Beaumontfort cried, giving the door another hammering. When no one answered, he strode to a diamond-paned kitchen window. His feet were nearly frozen, and he could hardly feel his fingers inside his gloves. The fire sending a wisp of smoke from the manor’s chimney would warm him—if he could ever get inside.

Lamplight shone through the soot that coated the thick glass panes. He could not discern anyone inside, but he felt confident Yardley would not have left a lamp burning unattended.

The earl tapped on the window. Nothing. His ire rising, he lifted his riding crop and gave one of the small glass panes a good whack. It broke loose from the leading and fell to the stone floor with a crash.

“Oh, what have you done now?” The female voice was angry. “You’ve broken the window! Wicked man! Be gone at once. Shoo!”

Beaumontfort peered through the empty pane into the kitchen. At that moment, a single, large brown eye filled the leaded diamond. Startled, the earl took a step backward.

“Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “What on earth?”

“Who, don’t you mean?” The brown eye blinked. “It is I, Gwyneth Rutherford of Brackendale House. You have broken the earl’s window, sir, and Cook will be jolly angry tomorrow, I assure you. I trust you’re prepared to pay for a new pane, because I shall not take responsibility for your vandalism.”

“Vandalism? Upon my word—”

“I know ’twas you who broke the window. Don’t even attempt to deny it. I was standing directly before the fire stirring the stew when I heard the pane fall to the floor. And I can promise you that the earl’s glass windows—”

“Enough about the earl and his blasted glass windows, girl. Open the door and let me come in.”

“Certainly not!”

Beaumontfort gritted his teeth. He was not the sort of fellow to lose his temper easily. In fact, he admired the young woman’s loyalty to the household and her determination to keep out vagabonds. All the same, his toes were likely to begin to chip off inside his boots at any moment.

“My dear woman,” he began, calming his voice. “I have journeyed all the way from Kendal this day, losing my path twice, encountering a raging blizzard, having my horse go lame, and failing to shoot the deer that would have been my dinner on the morrow. I have not eaten for a good six hours, and I am ravenous. Should you fail to open this door at once, I am likely to bash it in.”

The brown eye grew larger for a moment. “Were you shooting on the earl of Beaumontfort’s manor? That’s poaching, you know. Highly illegal. ’Tis a blessed thing you missed the deer. No one but the earl and his own personal—”

“I
am
the earl of Beaumontfort!” He jerked off his glove and pushed his signet ring into the open diamond. “And I am the lord of this manor. I have the right to shoot my own deer, break my own window panes, and—if perchance God still looks favorably upon me—enter my own home. Would you be so good as to open the door, please, Miss Rutherford?”

“M-Mrs. Rutherford,” she stammered. The brown eye vanished from the window, and in a moment the door creaked open.

Beaumontfort pushed it back and stepped into the warmth of the cavernous kitchen at the back of Brackendale House. The woman, a slender creature garbed in a plain brown plaid dress and white apron, gave him an awkward curtsy. He would have preferred to ignore her and proceed directly to his private rooms, but the earl knew she was his only hope for a decent meal.

“Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, striding across the stone floor toward the hearth. “I don’t recognize you. You must be new on staff. Do be so good as to prepare a platter of cold meats for my evening repast. I should like a loaf of fresh bread, as well, and perhaps some gingerbread. And could you please enlighten me as to the reason Yardley locked all the doors and vanished? I’m due to arrive in Cumbria tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow is not today, sir,” she said. “Mr. Yardley ordered the house prepared for your arrival, and then he gave the staff the evening off. After all, you’ll be in residence until after the new year, will you not, sir? With all the guests and parties and dinners you’ll be having here, no one on staff will have a moment to himself until you’ve gone away to London again. You keep only a small permanent staff here, sir, so all of us shall be required to labor long hours. This is a night for the village families and, no, you may not have fresh bread because all of Sukey’s children
and
her husband have come down with influenza. She was unable to bake anything at all today, but I can pour out crumpets.”

Beaumontfort turned from the fire and stared. What an impudent young woman. What utter candor. . . . What astonishing beauty.

Mrs. Rutherford’s clear, rose-cheeked skin was set off by a wealth of coal black hair swept up into a knot from which stray wisps drifted around her fine little chin. Her lips, though softly pink, expressed confidence and determination. Framed by a set of long black lashes, her intelligent brown eyes met his in an unwavering assessment. The earl felt suddenly not so much lord of the manor as an insect specimen on a skewer. He actually had the urge to wriggle in discomfort as she continued to look him over.

“They were quite wrong about you,” she said suddenly. “They told me you were old and crotchety. You aren’t old at all.”

“Quite crotchety, though.”

Her lips parted in a radiant smile that crinkled her eyes at the corners. “Perhaps you are, sir. But ’tis nothing that cannot be cured with a strong dose of cheer and good humor.”

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a strong dose of hot tea.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Nothing warms the heart like tea. Do seat yourself beside the fire, sir, and I’ll give my stew a stir. After that, I shall put on a kettle and carve a bit of beef from the shoulder we had this evening. Would you like crumpets?”

“Indeed. Have we jam? I do enjoy jam with my crumpets.” Beaumontfort settled into a large square-backed wooden chair and bent to tug off his boots.

“Allow me, sir,” Mrs. Rutherford said, kneeling at his feet. “Strawberry jam. And ’tis truly delicious. You really must come out to Brackendale Manor in the springtime, sir. This year the whole village went into the hills and valleys to pick strawberries, and I can tell you I never had such a lovely time in my life.” She pulled off one boot, and landed on her backside in a heap—though she never stopped talking for even a breath. “I used to live in Wales, and we don’t often find wild strawberries there—at least not in the mining areas. ’Tis dreadfully rocky, and one wouldn’t want to picnic as your staff did by the lake. We had singing and poetry and games. You would have loved it.”