A Victorian Christmas (24 page)

“Sir, as head housekeeper under the earl of Beaumontfort for fifty years,” Mrs. Riddle began, “I must—”

“You refer to my late father,” Beaumontfort cut in, turning toward the woman from the desk in his study. “I am earl now, of course, and I have been earl for three years.”

Mrs. Riddle’s pinched lips turned a pale shade of ivory. They hardly parted when she spoke. As a boy, Beaumontfort had found it fascinating to watch her form words through the tiny slit between them. Now her affected mannerism merely irritated him.

“Yes, my lord,” the woman continued with a deferential nod. “As head housekeeper under your father
and
you, and as an employee of Brackendale House for fifty-three years, I must take it upon myself to speak boldly.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Riddle. For I am quite confident your words will be both gracious and charitable.”

The lips tightened. “I must inform you, sir, that the kitchenmaid whom you directed to plan your Christmas ball is incapable of carrying out the assignment.”

“Kitchenmaid, Mrs. Riddle? I don’t believe I gave that assignment to a kitchenmaid. Gwyneth Rutherford is under your employ in the household staff, is she not? I understand from Yardley that she is performing her duties quite admirably.”

“Gwyneth Rutherford has only the experience of a kitchenmaid, sir. She hardly left the larder during her tenure at the House, and before that she was merely a housewife. She has no training in matters of such consequence as the entertainment of your friends and colleagues. Furthermore, she is Welsh.”

“Welsh, is she?” He tapped the nib of his pen on the blotter. “Interesting. Perhaps we shall have Welsh caroling.”

“As you know, my lord, the Welsh are . . . they are an unrefined people. And Gwyneth Rutherford hails from a mining village far less prosperous than our own.”

“Ah, yes, I’m given to understand that her late husband was part owner in a coal-mining venture. Which reminds me . . . you did send round for that coal delivery, didn’t you, Mrs. Riddle?”

“Of course, sir.”

“The house seems a bit nippy of late. Do be good enough to lay a fire in the gold parlor. I shall take my tea there this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.” Nostrils rimmed in white, the housekeeper stared as if daring him to give another order. He might be earl, but she clearly considered herself queen.

“And send Gwyneth Rutherford to my study, please. I shall welcome firsthand news of her progress on the Christmas ball. Now that you have mentioned it, my dear Mrs. Riddle, I believe that Welsh caroling would add the perfect touch to our festivities. Thank you for your ever-wise contributions, madam, and good afternoon.”

Before she could respond, he turned back to his writing desk and dipped his pen in the crystal inkwell. For the three years he had visited the country house as earl, Mrs. Riddle had been a pebble in his boot. In fact, he clearly recalled disliking her when he was a boy. Hadn’t he once put a toad in her pocket?

As the woman left the study, he considered what action he might take to replace her. The house had rarely been calm under her reign. The small staff labored in peril of losing their positions, fearful lest Mrs. Riddle dismiss them for one reason or another. Yet, how could Beaumontfort release such a long-term employee? An unmarried woman of Mrs. Riddle’s age would have little hope for a comfortable life . . .

The earl’s thoughts focused on old Mrs. Rutherford, whose own widowhood and poverty placed her at great risk. How many women, he wondered, lived on the edge of starvation in the village below the great house? He pondered Gwyneth’s efforts to help by carting leavings through the mud from home to home. The Beaumontfort family had never paid their villagers much heed, employing them as land tenants and household staff but rarely deigning to offer a helping hand. Perhaps, like Gwyneth, he should do something to assist.

Could
she
manage Brackendale House? Already Beaumontfort sensed the respect the staff paid her. She was well liked for her charity work, and Yardley insisted she was working diligently on preparations for the Christmas ball. Why not provide Mrs. Riddle a rent-free cottage and a small yearly purse? Why not place Gwyneth Rutherford as head housekeeper at Brackendale? Why not, indeed?

“My lord.” Her voice drew him out of his thoughts. “You sent for me?”

“Gwyneth.” He turned to face her. “Gwyneth, I have come to an important decision.”

“Yes, sir, so have I.” She took a step into the room. “I wish to resign my position at Brackendale House.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Resign your position?” The earl stood to his full height. “Why would you do such a thing, Gwyneth?”

“’Tis best, my lord.” She smoothed the white apron of her uniform and prayed for the words that would make him understand. “Mrs. Riddle is displeased with my work.”

“That woman does not—”

“
And
I feel that my presence may become the cause of unrest among the household staff. Mrs. Riddle tells me I am resented.” At the dark look on the earl’s face, she took a step toward him and laid her hand on his arm.

“William, from the moment I chose to follow Mrs. Rutherford to England, I knew God intended me to be a servant. I will not go against His plan. As a servant, I can reach out to others and help them. In some small way, I can minister to their needs. But as organizer of your Christmas festivities—”

“You are serving me.” He squared his shoulders. “Which is exactly why I placed you in that position.”

“Is it, William?” She lowered her hand. “You knew I had no experience in such matters. I am not the best choice. I still don’t know why—”

“Have you posted the invitations?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ordered the meats?”

“Yes, but—”

“Are the candles brought down from the storage rooms?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Then you are performing your duties as expected. I refuse to accept your resignation. You are my servant, Gwyneth. Mine.” He jabbed the air with a forefinger. “You will do as I command. And leave Mrs. Riddle to me. Is that clear?”

Gwyneth lowered her voice. “I am
God’s
servant above all. If I can serve my heavenly Father best as a kitchenmaid, then that is where I shall work.”

“But that’s preposterous.”

“You would do well to revisit the moment of your salvation, sir, and determine to whom you committed your life. If ’twas to Jesus Christ, then you must stop placing yourself and your own desires first. You must remember that hungry villagers are more important than Christmas balls. And you must understand that my purpose in life is not to promote myself or raise my wages or win the companionship of the earl of Beaumontfort. ’Tis to honor Christ and serve my fellow man.”

“You told me your deepest desire was to create for yourself a family.”

She swallowed at the truth in his words. “My own desires fall second, sir, when my purpose is to follow my Lord.”

Before he could argue further, Gwyneth gave him a curtsy and headed for the door. She knew he had ordered his afternoon tea in the gold parlor, and she could see the maids laying out the cup, saucer, and silver implements as she slipped from the house. Let the earl of Beaumontfort take his tea and issue his commands and be as crotchety as he liked. She could not afford to alienate the other staff in the House and lose all hope of providing for Mrs. Rutherford in her declining years.

Not only did the two women face the struggle for survival that every commoner endured, they also bore the burden of the failed coal mine in Wales. The property sat unused—the land amassing back taxes and much of the now-rusted equipment in arrears. Each month they sent a little money to their creditors, but it was never enough. Somehow, Gwyneth must continue to earn a decent living.

Most important, she would not go against God’s purposes. William might be earl, but his interest in her was clearly far too personal. And she would not set aside her commission to honor and care for her mother-in-law in favor of a brief romantic whim that could lead to nothing of profit. She must step away from the House—and its master—and try to think.

Stopping at the center of a narrow bridge on the outskirts of the village, Gwyneth drew in a deep breath. In her haste, she had left behind her woolen wrapper and gloves. An icy chill crept through her fingers as she set them on the iron railing and studied the glassy tarn beneath the bridge.

In deciding to resign her position at the House, she had confided her concerns to Mrs. Rutherford. Now those fears rose before her again. Mum had insisted that Gwyneth must follow her conscience, and God would provide. But what work could a poor widow find in the middle of winter? How could she earn enough wages to sustain two women who still owed such a debt in Wales? And how could she bear to surrender the joy that flooded her heart when William called out to her in greeting each morning or stopped by to chat with her each afternoon?

A gentle cascade of snowflakes sifted down from the leaden skies, dusting the bridge’s black ironwork and sugarcoating the sleeves of Gwyneth’s dark blue uniform. She closed her eyes and tried to gather her thoughts. With a shiver, she folded her hands against her mouth and exhaled to warm her fingers.

“Praying again, Mrs. Rutherford?” Gwyneth opened her eyes in surprise. The earl of Beaumontfort skated out from under the bridge, circled around on the frozen tarn, and came to a skidding halt that sent a spray of shiny crystals across the ice. A crimson scarf fluttered against his black frock coat as he held up a pair of skates. “These belonged to my little sister. Might I interest you in a brief turn around the lake?”

What an impossible man! He must have forgone his tea to follow her. She leaned forward, elbows on the rail. “Is that a command, my lord?”

“An invitation, friend to friend.”

“No thank you, then. I’m quite chilled to the bone, and I’m on my way home for tea.”

A frown darkened his face. She lifted her chin, fully expecting a barked command to follow. He set his hands on his hips, eyed her for a moment, and then let out a breath.

“Please?” he asked.

With a laugh of delight, Gwyneth clapped her hands. “Well done, William! Perhaps there’s a human being inside that frock coat after all.”

“Of course there is. Now will you come down and join him on the ice, or will he be forced to climb onto the bridge and sweep you off your feet?”

She pretended to consider for a moment. “Hmm. You know, I’ve never been swept off my feet.”

“I have,” he said. “Once.”

The light in his eyes sent a flush of heat to her cheeks. Alarm bells clanged inside her. This was the earl, the lord of the house, the master of Brackendale Manor. She couldn’t forget the differences between them, the hopeless and overwhelming chasm. He could not be allowed to woo her with entrancing words. She could not be seen alone in his company. Tongues would wag, gossip would fly, and her example of servitude would become a mockery.

“I left my wrap and gloves at the House,” she said quickly. “’Tis too cold for skating, and I really must be going home.”

“Don’t go, Gwyneth.” He skated toward the end of the bridge, paralleling her as she headed for the road. “I’m asking you to stay. I must speak with you.”

“’Tis not proper.”

“Balderdash.” He caught her arm and swung her around to face him. “I want to be near you, Gwyneth. Is that so much to ask?”

She lowered her head as he held up the skates once again. Unable to respond and quite certain this was the worst mistake of her life, Gwyneth took them from him. Before she could bend to tie them on, he was kneeling at her feet.

“You took off my boots once,” he said. “Let me learn to serve.”

As he wrapped the leather straps over her shoes, she laid one hand on his broad shoulder to steady herself. She could see the top of his head, dark hair thick and rumpled, falling a little over his ears. It was all she could do to keep from threading her fingers through it and giving his hair a tender tousle.

William had been a boy once, roving about the tarns alone. Perhaps he was still a boy at heart—a lad in need of a good friend, a companion as loving and comfortable as his two dear dogs. She could be that to him, couldn’t she? Merely a comrade, a chum?

“Gwyneth.” Still kneeling, he took her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. “Gwyneth, I won’t command you to stay on at the House. I’ll beg you instead. When you’re there, the rooms seem brighter somehow. Warmer. Filled with life. I hear you laughing now and again, or singing some little Christmas carol, and my heart lifts. I have lived my whole life with purpose and fortitude, plans stretching endlessly before me. But I have always been so restless.
Servanthood
and
godliness
and
family
. . . these are new words to me, Gwyneth. I drink them in like a man dying of thirst. I crave them, even though I cannot fully comprehend them. If you leave the House, if I cannot see you each morning, I shall be forced to relinquish that which lies just at the edge of my grasp.”

“And what is that, William?”

“Hope. Faith.” He lifted his head. “Perhaps . . . love.”

“No,” she said. “Not that.”

“Why not?” Standing, he slipped his arm around her waist and urged her out onto the ice. “You asked me if I had ever loved anyone. I have not—not in the way you describe it. And I’ve begun to wonder if it is only the Sukey Ironmongers and the Mrs. Rutherfords who have the right to love. Perhaps that emotion is unavailable to men such as I.”

Gwyneth closed her eyes and gripped his coat sleeves as he guided her across the tarn. How on earth could she concentrate on what he was saying when she was likely to land on her backside at any moment? She tried her best to keep her legs straight, but her ankles were determined to turn in, and her knees wobbled like jelly.

“Will you relax?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear. “Can you trust me to support you?”

“I’m trying, William, but ’tis treacherous here on the ice. I’m afraid I shall tumble.”

“I’m quite strong enough to protect you, Gwyneth. Here on the tarn . . . and at the House. Won’t you open your eyes?”

Her heart hammering, she looked up at him. Snowflakes drifted silently around them, a shrouding mist that enveloped the trees and hillsides in downy white. Warmth seeped through Gwyneth’s limbs and heated her cheeks. How could it be that the chill had vanished so quickly? Her hands clasped in his, they glided beneath another bridge and past a tiny island thickly grown with gorse.