A Victorian Christmas (28 page)

“Gwyneth,” the earl called up the staircase. “I should like to have a word with you, please.”

She raised her head, certain her cheeks were flaming red. “My lord, I—”

“About the Christmas ball,” the earl amended.

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Smoothing her wrinkled apron, she hurried down the stairs, aware that the eyes of all the staff were upon her. Did they know the earl had been at her cottage? Had they learned of his proposal? Or were they merely curious at the unexpected affinity between their master and his maid?

“In the front parlor, please,” he said, pointing. It was a command, not a request.

She knitted her fingers together and held her breath as he stepped into the room after her. The door stayed open behind him, though he placed his back to the hall so that no one could hear their words.

“The guests will begin arriving soon,” William said. “I am assuming that all is in order.”

“Yes, my lord. I have arranged for a small musical concert of Christmas hymns and various amusements in the parlor this evening as your visitors arrive. Tomorrow night, Christmas Eve, the ball will begin at eight o’clock with a meal, proceed through the dancing, and end with a nativity play performed by the village children. The footmen have laid out logs for a bonfire on the lawn. The following morning—”

“Gwyneth, I owe you a profound apology.” William moved forward, stopping only a pace from her and dropping his voice. “I came to your cottage the other night seeking nothing more than to speak with you. I hoped to better understand your faith in God. And I confess that I desired to be in your presence because I . . . because I have grown to care for you. Instead, I stepped beyond the bounds of gentlemanly behavior. My offer of assistance was well intended but poorly thought out. I am certain you misunderstood my meaning, for I would never suggest any imprudent action. I have—” he lowered his head—“I have been brought to the edge of despair at the memory of your reaction to my hasty and ill-considered words.”

She longed to reach out to him, to brush back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, to touch the hands that gripped his gloves so tightly. Instead, she stared down at her own shoes.

“I have been praying earnestly to God in these last few days,” he went on, still unable to meet her eyes. “And it has become evident to me that in the years since my conversion to Christianity at the feet of your mother-in-law, I have strayed from that conviction. Unlike yours, my faith in Christ has not borne fruit. My purposes have been selfish and my actions worldly.”

“The coachman is here, sir!” Yardley called through the open parlor door. “Three minutes past the hour, my lord.”

“One moment,” the earl returned. He raked a hand through his hair. “Gwyneth, I want you to know that I have asked forgiveness of God for my heedless notion that you must serve me as you serve Him. I ask forgiveness now of you.”

“You have it,” she said softly.

“So readily?” He lifted his head. “How is your faith so easily followed?”

“’Tis never easy to follow Christ, William. Do you think it has been easy to give up my dreams of husband, children, and home? Do you believe ’twas easy to leave Wales and accompany Mrs. Rutherford to a foreign land? When you made your offer of refuge that night outside the cottage, ’twas all I could have hoped for, wasn’t it?”

“Do you care for me then? Even a little?”

“More than a little.” She looked away. “Though you may deny it, I have seen the fruit of the Holy Spirit in your life. You are well known for your intelligence and honesty. But you have shown yourself to be good, kind, and generous, as well. More than that, you have made me laugh. I shall never forget you.”

“Five minutes past the hour, my lord,” the butler called. “The coachman awaits.”

“In a moment, Yardley!” William barked. He took her hand. “Gwyneth, how fares your mother-in-law?”

“Better, I think. Her spirits have rallied.”

“And you?”

She shrugged. “I wait upon the Lord.”

“Never again shall I seek to make you serve me, Gwyneth. But may I ask you to trust me?”

“In what?”

“In all things.”

She nodded, understanding the meaning of his request. He would never dishonor her. “Good day, my lord. May you go with God.”

He squeezed her hand. “Yes, with God—to whose path I have recommitted my life. Forgive me, Gwyneth. Trust me. And if you can, love me.”

Without waiting for a response, he made for the parlor door. “Yardley, where is my hat?”

“Just here, my lord. And your coat, as well. We are expecting snow, sir, a good bit of it, I should think.”

Gwyneth leaned against a settee upholstered in gold brocade and drank down a deep breath. Forgive him? Yes, that was easy. William was a man, as confused and uncertain as she in the matter of this strong emotion that had sprung up between them. He had spoken in haste, and he had apologized. Of course she could forgive him.

Trust him? That, too, was easy. He had proven himself honorable and good. She had no doubt he would labor for the welfare of all those around him.

Love him?

Dear God, yes, I love him! How easily I have loved this man
from the moment we met. Why have You allowed such an impossible
emotion to creep into my heart when I had believed myself beyond
the tender feelings between a man and a woman? Is this some test
of my faith in You, Father? Oh God, You know I love You more than
I love any human. My spirit serves You, and only You. My devotion
to You will never cease. I beg You to end my torment!

Before emotion could overwhelm her, Gwyneth squared her shoulders and returned to the foyer. As she crossed to the staircase, she spotted the earl speaking in earnest to a pair of visitors who had just entered the House. The newcomers made a sight that fairly took her aback.

The young female of the pair wore a bright green silk gown trimmed with countless rows of lace upon the skirt, which was dotted with satin bows. The hat perched on her head bore such a great number of ostrich plumes that it threatened to fly away of its own accord. The gentleman had bedecked himself in a furcollared, pinch-waisted coat, a pair of checked wool trousers, and a large, bow-tied cravat. A mound of oiled black curls perched atop his scalp, looking as though they might slide off
en masse
with just the tilt of his head.

“Mr. Maxwell,” the earl was saying, “and Miss Maxwell, this is an unexpected pleasure. Welcome, of course. How good of you to come all this way.”

“But my sister and I received an invitation to your Christmas ball, Beaumontfort,” the gentleman replied. “Did you not receive our response?”

“No, I cannot imagine—”

“I am certain Mr. and Miss Maxwell are expected,” Mrs. Riddle interrupted the earl. “They are your cousins, are they not, my lord? Their names would have been included on the list of those invited to the festivities.”

“Quite right,” Beaumontfort said uncertainly.“It has been several years since our last meeting, has it not, Maxwell? You and your sister are looking well. I believe you have grown taller, Miss Maxwell.”

“Yes,” the young woman said with a blush and a giggle. “Yes, indeed.”

Miss Maxwell,
Gwyneth thought. So this girl was expected by some to wed the earl. A striking beauty in her elaborate gown and hat, she clearly had the power to attract attention to herself.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Gwyneth said, stepping forward to address the earl. “Indeed, Mr. Maxwell’s acceptance to the ball has been registered. Rooms are prepared in the east wing.”

“I see,” Beaumontfort said, a question in his blue eyes.

“Yes, my lord,” Gwyneth went on. “I wrote the invitations myself, sir.” She dropped him a curtsy before addressing the visitors. “Have you and Miss Maxwell baggage, Mr. Maxwell? I shall send a footman.”

The man’s eyes lit with pleasure. “Thank you, madam. How good of you.” He glanced at the earl. “Would this, perhaps, be Mrs. Gwyneth Rutherford? Mrs. Riddle has told me all about you.”

“Indeed!” Beaumontfort exclaimed. “Maxwell, again I am astonished. How is it that you know Mrs. Riddle?”

His cousin smiled, revealing a set of very large white teeth.“Do you forget that I was brought up on a small estate near Ambleside? Whilst you and your family gave little heed to anyone outside your social circle, those of us less richly blessed in lineage played our part in the local community. Mrs. Riddle’s sister served my mother as housemaid. The elder Mrs. Rutherford’s husband owned property adjoining ours, and their two sons were my close companions.”

“In fact,” he continued, addressing Gwyneth, “your husband was, at one time, my beloved boyhood friend. I miss him greatly, and I was deeply saddened at the news of his tragic death in Wales. I consider you a dear reminder of him.”

At that, he took her hand and kissed her fingers with a flourish. Half-amused and half-repelled by the unctuous man, Gwyneth tipped her head and pointed the way to the staircase. “Mrs. Wells will guide you and your sister to your quarters, sir.”

“Until later then, Mrs. Rutherford, Mrs. Riddle. Good morning to you, Beaumontfort.” Donald Maxwell lifted his chin and ascended the stairs as his sister gathered her many skirts to follow him to the east wing.

The earl tugged on his gloves and adjusted the leather fingers. When the visitors were well out of earshot, he turned to his housekeeper. “Mrs. Riddle, I am quite convinced I did
not
invite Donald Maxwell.”

“You did, sir,” the housekeeper countered. “Wasn’t his name on the list, Gwyneth?”

“Yes, madam. I posted his invitation with the others. Shall I fetch the original orders?”

“No, no, of course not,” Mrs. Riddle said. “My lord, Mr. Maxwell is your closest living relation. I am perfectly certain you invited him.”

He glowered up the stairs in Maxwell’s direction. “Just see to it that the man is keenly observed. On our last encounter, he attempted to rob me of something very dear.”

With that, he stepped out of the foyer, leaving his staff standing openmouthed behind him. Gwyneth lifted her skirts and brushed past Mrs. Riddle. The name of Donald Maxwell had indeed been on the invitation list—but it had
not
been written in the hand of the earl of Beaumontfort.

As she climbed the stairs to resume hanging pine swags, she felt her spirits girding up for war. Though she could not be certain what Mrs. Riddle had up her sleeve, it was apparently something that involved Donald Maxwell and his sumptuous little sister. What did the housekeeper hope to gain from an alliance between the earl and Miss Maxwell? Did Mrs. Riddle suppose that her relationship with the Maxwells would ensure her position in the House, were there to be a marriage? Did she believe that Donald Maxwell could somehow speak on her behalf—or that he had the power to harm the earl? Or was there another scheme of which Gwyneth could hardly guess?

Gwyneth was well aware she dwelled on the brink of poverty and could afford to risk nothing, but she also knew she would do battle with the devil himself to protect the man she loved from further hurt. If Donald Maxwell had once tried to steal the hand of the earl’s sister, what wouldn’t he do?

“You must go to t’ Christmas ball tonight, my dear,” Mrs. Rutherford said from her chair beside the fire. “He’ll be lookin’ for you.”

Gwyneth listened as her own knitting needles clicked in time with Mum’s. “You are being very silly,” she said softly. “It must be the influenza that has addled your senses.”

“I’m not ill, and I’m not addled.” The dear woman’s voice was more tense than usual, and Gwyneth wondered what had upset her. “You planned t’ ball, so you’ll be expected to see it off without a hiccup. Besides, t’ earl invited you personally. Did you not say he wanted you to be there for a special reason?”

“He invited
us
. He wanted us both to be there, Mum.”

“Then we’ll go together.”

“Nonsense. You’re hardly able to walk five paces without a fit of coughing. You gave me such a fright the other day, I won’t even think of letting you out of the house. You’ll sit right there, and knit your jersey, and have a cup of good, hot tea.”

“I only frightened you because I lost my way for a moment. When I read that letter from Wales, somehow I forgot altogether that my life rests in t’ hands of almighty God, and I’m not to worry about t’ food I shall eat nor t’ roof over my head.”

Gwyneth turned her knitting and threaded the length of soft blue wool through her fingers. “We’ll be all right, Mum,” she said gently. “I feel certain of it. If we can find a wagon on its way to Wales, we can transport most of our things. Once the cottage is sold—”

“I’ll not go back to Wales,” Mrs. Rutherford said, a quaver in her voice. “I’ll stay here in Cumbria where I was born and bred, and here I’ll die. You shall go on to your family alone. My God will provide.”

“I won’t leave you, Mum. I promised you that long ago.” Gwyneth’s knitting blurred as tears filled her eyes. “You are my family. Your God is my God. I shall die where you die, and I’ll be buried beside you. If you will not go with me to Wales, then we shall stay here. Together.”