A Victorian Christmas (29 page)

For almost a minute, the two worked at their knitting in the silence of the little cottage. Nothing but the crackle of the fire on the hearth and the tapping of a bare branch against a windowpane disturbed the quiet. Gwyneth focused on the simple arrangement of pine boughs that covered the mantel, their fresh-cut branches scenting the warm air.

“Christmas morning soon will be upon us,” Gwyneth said softly, “and I have nothing to give you, whom I love so dearly.”

“Nothing but your honor and respect and constancy,” Mrs. Rutherford answered with a smile. “You are t’ light of my old age, Gwynnie. How I thank my God for you!”

“And I, for you. I shall speak to Sukey’s husband tomorrow. Jacob Ironmonger is a kind man. Perhaps he knows of someone who will take us both in.”

“We’ll be just like t’ holy family in Bethlehem, knockin’ on doors and askin’ to be let inside.”

“If a stable was good enough for the King of kings to lay His head, I’m sure you and I can make do.” Gwyneth lifted her chin. “I have considered applying for a position at the stocking factory in Ambleside.”

“Will you leave your place at t’ House?”

“I shall have no choice after the earl returns to London. Mrs. Riddle will not allow me to work in the larder again, of that I am certain.”

“My dear, I must tell you of somethin’ that has come to pass. T’ housekeeper stopped by here this very evenin’ while you were deliverin’ t’ leavin’s in t’ village.”

Gwyneth’s heart clenched. “Mrs. Riddle came here? Whatever for?”

“T’ cottage.” She swallowed. “I have sold it.”

“To Mrs. Riddle?” She leapt forward in the chair. “I
knew
she was planning to do something like this. How could you let her take your home, the place where you gave birth to your children, this beautiful, dear cottage? Oh, that woman is the most wicked—”

“Not
her
,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “Mrs. Riddle brought along a visitor. He was t’ one who bought t’ cottage and land.”

Gwyneth knew at once of whom the old woman spoke. “Donald Maxwell.”

“T’ very chap. I’ve never been fond of him, not since he tried to woo t’ earl’s sister. He was deceitful and canny about it. But he offered me a fair price.”

“Did you take his money?”

“Nay. I told him I would speak with you first, but I know I shall accept his offer. He comes tomorrow mornin’ with t’ papers I must sign.”

“On Christmas Day?”

“Try to calm yourself, my dear. T’ price will make a start on t’ debt we owe in Wales. How could I say no?”

“Because . . . because he is not a nice man and . . . and the earl doesn’t like him and . . .” She stood and tossed down her knitting. “I do not trust him, Mum! And I do not want that man to take land that rightfully belongs to you. Mrs. Riddle invited him here—not the earl. He’s come at her bidding, and I know she’s behind this offer on the cottage. She knows that if we sell the cottage we must move away. And that secures her position as head housekeeper. But I fear she has greater schemes than this. If the Maxwells live so near the earl, Mrs. Riddle can arrange regular meetings between them, and perhaps a marriage. I feel certain she and Donald Maxwell are plotting together on these plans that will benefit them both! You mustn’t sell the cottage to him. You must—”

“Calm yourself, child.” Mrs. Rutherford stood and slipped an arm around Gwyneth’s shoulder. “I am forced to take what I can get for t’ property. There have been no other offers. I have no choice.”

“You must have a choice! There must be
something
you can do.”

“Only one thing.” Her eyes misted. “I can fall upon t’ mercy of t’ earl. I can ask you to go to him and plead with him to give us aid. My husband was his cousin. He’s my relative, though distant, and I feel sure he would help two lonely widows. If you implore him, I know he’ll ask nothin’ in return.”

Stricken, Gwyneth searched the worn face before her. “You want me to beg?”

“Go to t’ Christmas ball tonight, Gwynnie. When you find t’ earl, sit yourself near him, no matter how it looks to t’ others. Lay yourself at his feet, if you must. He’s been kind to you. Ask him to pay our debt and allow us to live t’ remainder of our days in t’ cottage.” A tear made its way down her weathered cheek. “I know of naught more we can do, Gwynnie. We have no other hope. I know he cares for you—I have seen it in his eyes. And he himself has fond memories of this cottage. For the sake of his own family’s holdings, perhaps he would help us.”

“But you said God would provide.”

“He has. He provided Donald Maxwell. And He provided t’ earl. Now we must do our part.”

Gwyneth clutched the woman’s frail shoulders. Mum had no idea of the words of passion, anger, forgiveness, and rejection that had passed between her and William. If Gwyneth went to him, what would he think of her? That she was using his kindness to save herself? That she cared for his financial assistance but not his person?

Oh, God, surely You cannot expect me to go before William and
beg for mercy! Surely You cannot mean to make me do this! Show
us some other way. Provide another answer . . .

“You could wear your blue dress,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “And I shall let you borrow my brooch. How will t’ earl resist you?”

CHAPTER SIX

Mortification shrouding her like a black shawl, Gwyneth stepped into the foyer of Brackendale Manor and removed her bonnet. The attendees gathered would recognize at once that she did not belong among the landed gentry and peerage who graced the halls. Her gown was of simple blue muslin, its neckline graced with nothing more than a single row of handmade lace. Though she had put up her hair in a braided knot, she had only a thin blue ribbon to adorn it. Her gloves were threadbare, her slippers worn at the toes.

She eased past the elegant company and edged her way along the side walls, wishing she could disappear altogether. She must find William, plead with him to spare the cottage, and then escape into the blessed darkness of night. If only she could accomplish her task without drawing attention to herself. If only her plight were not so extreme. If only she were not reduced to crawling on her knees . . . begging . . .

Mum’s favorite passage of Scripture slipped into her thoughts. “
If any man desire to be first, the same shall be last of all, and servant
of all.” Servant of all.
This was Gwyneth’s aim and her commitment—to serve Mum, and in serving her, to serve the Lord God.

“I am quite fond of the theatre,” a woman said nearby.“Although I confess I do not like to go
every
night, as Fanny does.”

“I protest!” another responded in a peal of laughter. “I certainly leave my calendar free for opera.”

“And for Christmas balls,” a gentleman said. “Does not the manor house appear grand this evening, my dear Fanny? I believe Beaumontfort has employed a better staff than last year. I understand that later we are to have a small nativity play performed by the village children. True meaning of Christmas, and all that. Splendid notion, don’t you think?”

Feeling that every eye in the room must be upon her, Gwyneth slid past the group. She spotted the earl’s footmen tending the gathering, and she wondered what they must think of her to appear in this company without her dark uniform and white apron. Did they know she had been invited as a guest? Doubtful. And she would never admit that their master had committed such a breach of etiquette.

Lifting up her hundredth prayer for divine assistance, she at last located the earl of Beaumontfort. He was surrounded by a bevy of beautiful young women, among them Miss Maxwell. Her arm looped through his, she leaned against his shoulder and chatted as though she were the fox that had captured the prize rooster. Donald Maxwell stood not far away, his oily curls agleam in the lamplight as he regaled a group of men with some story they found highly amusing.

“And a pathetic fire that fairly belched with smoke!” he was saying as Gwyneth moved past him. “The old woman insisted she must have at least a hundred pounds for the place. She would not take less! And I told her I could give no more than seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five! How much land did you say there was?” another fellow demanded, much diverted. “I believe you could be tried and hanged for robbery, Maxwell.”

“At least one hundred acres of prime forest, and the property can boast a fair number of streams. Once I have torn down the cottage, I shall build myself a manor house to rival Brackendale itself.”

Choking with disbelief, Gwyneth lowered her head and slipped around the man. Seventy-five pounds? How could Mrs. Rutherford have agreed to such a paltry sum? She had indeed been robbed— and by a man who meant to pull down the cottage at the first opportunity. Her resolve strengthened, she made for the earl.

“Mrs. Rutherford!” he exclaimed on seeing her. “I am delighted you have come. Ladies, may I present Mrs. Gwyneth Rutherford.”

The women curtsied.“Have we not met before?” Miss Maxwell asked. “You have a familiar look about you.”

“Indeed, madam, I am—”

“Mrs. Rutherford is my dear friend,” Beaumontfort said. “She assists in the management of my household.”

Seven pairs of incredulous eyes fastened on Gwyneth. “You
assist
the earl?” Miss Maxwell asked.

Gwyneth tried to smile as she glanced at William in a silent plea for assistance.

“In fact, I could not manage my affairs without her,” he said. “The decor is splendid, Mrs. Rutherford. Magnificent. You have outdone yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gwyneth let out a breath, trying to make herself relax. It was useless. The women clustered closer, like wolves around a wounded lamb, moving in for a kill.

“Is your husband a friend of the earl’s, then, Mrs. Rutherford?” Miss Maxwell asked. “I find this association most fascinating.”

“I am a widow. I come from Wales.” Her speech sounded plain and inelegant. “And if I may—”

“Wales?” The women looked at each other as though this in itself were a grand joke. “But how marvelous! Yet, you must find our company vastly boring, for we have nothing so amusing as your Welsh log-tossing games.”

As the women giggled behind their gloves, Gwyneth turned to the earl. “My lord, if I may speak with you a moment, I would be much obliged.”

“Indeed, I had been hoping to speak with you, Mrs. Rutherford. Excuse me, ladies.” Without hesitation, he detached himself from the astonished Miss Maxwell and escorted Gwyneth to a corner of the room. As the orchestra struck up the notes of another dance and revelers filled the floor, the earl took Gwyneth’s elbow and turned her to face him.

“My lord,” she began, “I have come tonight to beg a kindness of you.”

“And I, of you.” He smiled, his blue eyes warm. “But first I must tell you that you are truly lovely, Gwyn. I confess I feared you would not come.”

“I would not have, sir, but Mrs. Rutherford has asked me to speak with you.”

“Your mother-in-law? How fares the dear lady? I trust she is much improved.” At Gwyneth’s acknowledgment, he made as if to steer her through the long French doors into a less crowded parlor.

But she held up her hand. “My lord—”

“Call me William.”

“You asked me to trust you, and in this matter I can hope for no other champion.”

“But first, I must champion my own cause.” He took her hand. “Gwyneth, I have been thinking and praying about my future. About your future.” He touched her cheek. “About our future.”

“Announce it then!” someone shouted. “Announce it, Maxwell! Share your good news.”

At the raised voice, laughter, and cheers, the orchestra faltered and the dancing stopped. In a moment, Donald Maxwell was lifted bodily onto the dais and saluted with a round of applause. The earl slipped a protective arm around Gwyneth as he focused on the interruption of the evening’s festivities.

“All right, all right!” Maxwell said to the crowd.“Beaumontfort, I am asked to give out my news for all to hear. You should have been the last to know—and therefore the most surprised—but at the behest of my friends, I shall tell you.”

The earl’s jaw flickered with tension. “What news, cousin?”

“We are to be neighbors once again, sir.” The man gave a dramatic bow. “Although my family’s property near Ambleside was swallowed up some years ago by Brackendale, recently I have arranged to purchase land adjoining yours. I mean to bring my sister to Cumbria and build for us a house that will rival any in the Lakelands.”

At the applause, the earl set Gwyneth aside and walked toward the dais, his presence parting the crowd as though it were the river Jordan. Broad-shouldered, eyes flashing, he stepped onto the dais beside his cousin. The smaller man touched his oiled curls as the earl regarded him.

“Welcome to Cumbria, Maxwell,” Beaumontfort said. “I am certain you will make your presence felt.”

“Thank you, my lord. Yes, indeed.”

“And may I ask the location of your new property? For I cannot recall any land for sale in these parts.”

“Indeed, sir, in that you are mistaken.” Maxwell lifted his chin. “I am buying the cottage and nearly one hundred acres belonging to Mrs. Rutherford. The property lies near the village, and it possesses a fine prospect of Brackendale Manor. I believe we shall see one another’s lights of an evening. My sister and I will, of course, welcome you to visit us as often as you like. Indeed, my lovely sister—”

“Mrs. Rutherford’s cottage, did you say?” the earl demanded.

“Yes, sir.”

Gwyneth saw the earl’s focus dart toward her. She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. How could it be undone now? No matter that she throw herself on the earl’s mercy, his cousin had announced ownership. Begging would accomplish nothing. Even prayer seemed hopeless, though she shut her eyes and poured out her soul.

“And when did this transaction occur?” the earl was asking.

“This evening before the ball. Mrs. Riddle was good enough to—”

“Riddle is behind this?” His voice rose. “To what end?”

“She said she hoped merely to assist me in establishing a permanent connection to this district.”

“And to assure her own permanent station, as well,” the earl said. “You wish to purchase Mrs. Rutherford’s land, cousin, and I assume you have seen to the welfare of the woman herself?”