A Victorian Christmas (26 page)

“Good afternoon, my lord.” The man removed his hat and gave a bow. “T’ main thoroughfares are traveled enough to be passable, sir. But t’ lanes and byways are treacherous.”

William studied the steel gray skies. “I’d say we’re in for another snow.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“We’ve had more snow this year than normal, haven’t we, James?”

“Yes, my lord.”

As usual, no one on the earl’s staff gave more than a deferential answer to his inquiries. There would be no conversation about the coming storm, no musings as to its impact on the activities surrounding the manor, no queries as to the master’s plans for the evening. Nothing. It wasn’t proper.

William studied the young groom, whose nervous twisting of his gloves revealed his eagerness to be off. Rarely before had the earl wished for conversation with his staff—or with anyone, for that matter. Too busy, of course. Important matters to attend to. Business to be transacted. Perhaps if he returned to London, his hours would fill quickly and there would be no time for loneliness and longing. No desire for camaraderie, friendship . . . or love.

“James,” he said suddenly, “have you a family? a wife, perhaps? children?”

The man’s eyes narrowed in wariness. “Yes, my lord.”

“A wife then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How many children?”

“Three, sir.”

“And . . . ah . . . do they play in the snow? Your children?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I see. Very good, James. Do take care of them.”

“Yes, my lord. I will, sir.” He gave another little bow.

William let out a breath. “I was considering a ride, but perhaps that would not be prudent. What do you think, James? Should I ride, and if so, which of my horses do you find the most surefooted? And can you tell me your opinion of the stables, James? Do you think them warm enough, or should I consider a stronger door?”

The groom glanced over the earl’s shoulder as if he wished he could run for cover from this unexpected battery of questions. “Ridin’, sir, would be . . .” His eyes brightened. “I say, there’s Gwyneth Rutherford. What’s she doin’ out here in t’ stables?” Catching himself, he addressed the earl again. “Ridin’, sir, would be ill advised under t’ circumstances.”

William turned to find Gwyneth marching purposefully down the long row of stalls. Spotting him, she gave a silent gasp, pulled up short, and clutched her shawl against her throat. With an unconscious attempt to smooth her hair, she continued on more slowly.

“My lord.” She gave the earl a curtsy. Her technique had improved, he noted wryly. “James.”

“Mrs. Rutherford,” the men replied as one.

“My lord, I must request permission to take a carriage to Bowness on Windermere,” she said, her focus on the earl. “We need figs and ribbon and crackers and all manner of items for the Christmas ball. Really, I must go straightaway. You cannot imagine the kerfuffle I’ll be in if we don’t have figs for the sugarplum trees.”

As James headed into one of the stalls, a tickle of amusement lifted the corner of the earl’s mouth. “Sugarplum trees?”

“I must put something down the middle of the tables, of course—for decoration. Cook tells me ’tis always done. We won’t have fresh fruit at this time of year, and I had hoped for something festive.” Her brown eyes lit up. “Sugarplums! I loved them as a child, didn’t you? We used to have them at dinner on Christmas Day, so delicious I could hardly wait.”

“Visions of sugarplums danced in your head?”

“Exactly!” She laughed and reached out to touch his hand. “Please, you must let me take a carriage. If possible, I shall be away only this one night. Mum isn’t well, you see, and I dare not leave her alone for long.”

“Not well?”

“I fear she may have the influenza.”

“I shall take you to Bowness myself,” he announced. “James, ready a carriage.”

“No!” Her cry rang through the stables. Grabbing his sleeve, she pulled him closer and stood on tiptoe to whisper into his ear. “I cannot go away with you, William! Think of it, please, and reconsider your order at once.”

“You would rather go with James?” he murmured back, rather enjoying the moment of intimate tête-à-tête.

“James is a groom. I can go with him, of course. But not with you!” Her voice trembled a little. “Please, do not insist upon this, William. I beg you.”

He considered for a moment. It would be most enchanting to spend an entire afternoon in the presence of the witty and straightforward Gwyneth Rutherford. He could take her to dinner at some little inn near the lake. They might stroll the shops together the following morning. Bowness was a lovely town, and he would buy Gwyneth anything she desired.

But the look in her eyes reminded him once again that her commitment to her faith took precedence over all else. She would not raise eyebrows with imprudent behavior. Her duty came before any sort of frivolity. She was a servant, demonstrating her commitment to Christ in word and deed. And it was this very quality that drew him to her.

Dear God,
he prayed, awkward at the unfamiliar step into the world of the invisible.
Please grant me wisdom. Teach me to walk
with You as Gwyneth does.

“How may I serve you best?” he said, taking her hand and looking into her brown eyes. And then he knew. “James, will the carriage be safe enough along the main road to Bowness?”

“Yes, my lord,” the groom replied, emerging from the stall.

“Take Mrs. Rutherford’s list, then, and purchase the goods she requires.” He handed over the sheet of paper she had brought. “But first, see that she is escorted safely home this afternoon. Her mother-in-law is ill.”

Giving Gwyneth the most formal of bows, William forced himself to turn and walk away. He heard a breath of relief escape her lips, and he knew his prayer had been answered. Though it was not the answer he liked nor the path he would have chosen, he understood that to serve God and to truly honor and respect this woman, he must give her up.

CHAPTER FOUR

“However do you know so much about all these people?” Gwyneth sat beside her mother-in-law in their little cottage and sorted through the responses to the earl’s Christmas invitations. The room was warm and cozy this night with the women’s chairs pushed close to the fire and the crackle of the flames to cheer them. Their wooden floor had been swept clean, their dinner dishes washed and put away, and their shutters latched against the winter wind.

Gwyneth held up a missive inscribed with grand flourishes of black ink. “Now, tell me about this gentleman, Donald Maxwell. Who is he?”

The old woman’s knitting needles clicked as the length of brown wool on her lap wove into a complex pattern of cables and fisherman’s knots. “Donald Maxwell is a baron of very little means and very great ambitions,” she replied. “He’s a distant cousin to t’ earl, but you’d think he was king by t’ airs he puts on.”

The effort of conversation sent her into a fit of coughing that made Gwyneth’s heart ache. “Here’s a clean hanky, Mum. Shall I pour you another cup of tea?”

“Thank you kindly, Gwynnie. Oh, me, I do hope I’m past this before Christmas.” Setting her knitting aside, she accepted the cup with both hands. “Does it seem cold in t’ house to you, my dear? I can’t seem to stay warm.”

“I’ll fetch more coal.” On her feet at once, Gwyneth threw her shawl over her shoulders and hurried outside. As she scooped a hod full of coal from the bin outside their cottage, she scanned the narrow road to the village. Empty, of course. The earl had not come to visit the two women again, nor had he spoken more than a word of greeting to Gwyneth at the House each morning. She remembered well the evening she had made him crumpets before the fire. And she recalled their breathtaking skate across the lake and down the beck.

With her refusal to accompany him to the town of Bowness, the earl of Beaumontfort’s attentions to her had ended. She should be grateful.

Clutching the hod close, she pushed back into the room. She must not think about the man. How could she be so ungrateful as to desire more than God had given her? This cozy cottage and Mrs. Rutherford were enough.
Dear Lord, please let them be
enough!

“Donald Maxwell did his best to woo t’ earl’s wee sister when she came of age,” Mum was saying as Gwyneth stoked the fire. “But Lady Elizabeth would have none of it. She married a fine young fellow from Yorkshire, and a good thing, too.”

“I’ve never seen Lady Elizabeth.”

“A true beauty, and very sweet. Once Maxwell knew he’d lost her, he set about to match his own sister to t’ earl.”

Gwyneth sat down again and studied the letter’s elegant penmanship. “I didn’t realize any woman held the earl’s affections.”

“Oh, he doesn’t take them serious, Gwynnie. At least, that’s t’ word in t’ village. Some say our master will be a bachelor for t’ rest of his days. But you can be sure any number of women would marry him at t’ drop of a hat. He’s a good Christian, he’s rich, he’s landed, he’s becomin’ to look upon, and he’s kind. What more could a lady want, I ask you?”

“Nothing more,” Gwyneth answered softly. “Nothing at all.”

Hoping her mother-in-law could not read the message in her tone of voice, she sorted through the remainder of the letters. She couldn’t afford to dwell on the impossible. There was work to be done, after all.

In one pile she placed the letters from those who had accepted the invitation to the Christmas ball. In another, she placed the regrets. To her way of thinking, it seemed half the English peerage would be coming to Brackendale Manor in less than a week. She could only pray she’d be ready for them.

“Do
you
find t’ earl becomin’ to look upon, Gwynnie?” Mrs. Rutherford asked. “Or is he too old for your taste?”

“Old? He’s only just past forty,” she answered absently. “He’s certainly not old, and I, for one, cannot imagine how anyone finds him crotchety. I’ve never known a man who enjoyed a laugh more or one who took such pleasure in—” She glanced up. “The earl is agreeable.”

Mrs. Rutherford chuckled as she turned her knitting to start a new row. “Agreeable, is he? More so since he met you, I’m told.”

“Who would tell you such a pointless piece of nonsense as that?”

“Sukey Ironmonger. T’ dear girl dropped in on me t’ other day, and she told me t’ House is fairly aglow with your preparations for t’ ball. Everyone’s in high spirits. Do you know t’ earl himself has been speakin’ quite plainly with his staff, askin’ questions and seekin’ advice as though he were no grander than a common gent? Sukey says last week he went down to t’ village and had a look round at t’ ironworks, t’ mill, and all t’ shops. He’s ordered his footman to write up a list of all t’ widows and elderly who can’t provide for themselves. Word has it, he’s going to establish a fund. Can you credit that? A fund for t’ elderly.”

Gwyneth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and placed the letters in her workbasket. “The earl of Beaumontfort is a good man. I have no doubt that he’d care for the villagers.”

“He didn’t before.” Mrs. Rutherford gave a cough. “T’ villagers say ’tis you, Gwynnie, who’ve done it. You’ve changed t’ earl.”

“I’ve done nothing but my duty,” Gwyneth insisted, “and you’ve dropped your hanky again, Mum. I do wish you’d look after it. Here, take mine. Look, this is a letter that came in the post today. Perhaps ’tis from your cousin in Ambleside.”

Before Mum could go on with that ridiculous blather about Gwyneth’s effect on the earl, the younger woman crossed the room to lay out their nightgowns and slip the coal-filled brass warmers into their beds. Enough was enough. The gossip had to stop before her reputation suffered.

If so many women in London were eager to marry William, why didn’t he just choose one of them? Let him marry Donald Maxwell’s sister. Better yet, he could just stay a bachelor, and then she might see him now and again, or speak with him . . .

No, there must be no further dalliances with a lowly housemaid. The earl had made his request to see Gwyneth alone, she had spurned him, and that was that.

“Oh, dear God, this cannot be!” Mrs. Rutherford gasped and began to cough. “Oh, Gwynnie! Gwyn!”

Doubled over in pain, the old woman clutched at her chest as Gwyneth raced across the room to her side.“What is it, Mum? Take a sip of tea. Please, you must calm yourself. Whatever is the matter?”

Mrs. Rutherford took a drink as Gwyneth patted her on the back. A hand on the fevered forehead told the dire news. “Mum, you’ve taken a turn for the worse. You must come and lie down. I’ll fetch the apothecary at once.”

“No, no.” Mrs. Rutherford squeezed Gwyneth’s hand as her coughing subsided. “No, I cannot. Cannot rest. This letter . . . ’tis t’ news I feared. May God have mercy upon us, Gwynnie. We’re ruined.”

Beaumontfort paused at the edge of the wooded copse and studied the little cottage by the stream. In spring, he recalled, the climbing rosebush by the door would be lush and green, its long, arching canes loaded with pink blossoms. In summer, the lavender that lined the narrow lane would display a mist of heavenly purple flowers. By autumn, the trees surrounding the cottage would cast their red and gold leaves into the beck, and a wisp of pale smoke would waft from the brick chimney.