A Victorian Christmas (32 page)

But Papa had told him to get something for himself. Mick looked across the parlor at the dark tree in the corner. Wouldn’t he be the envy of the alleyway if he brought that silver ball out of his pocket and dangled it in the air for all his chums to see? Starting toward the tree, Mick thought of the boys’ faces, their hungry eyes and rough hands. Someone bigger and meaner would take the silver ball away at once.

Across the room, Mick’s father was rifling through papers and envelopes, eagerly stuffing some of them down into his bag. Maybe Mick wouldn’t take anything from the house. He knew that all the things in the room belonged to the rich people. Even though Papa said the master of the house wouldn’t even miss what was gone, Mick couldn’t deny how bad he would feel if another boy stole his silver ball.

“Come on then, lad,” his father whispered, taking the boy by the shoulder. “Let’s go home to your mum, eh?”

Mick nodded, eager to slip back into his mother’s arms and give her a warm hug. She would want to hear all about their evening’s work. And she would be so proud of Mick—proud that he had not been discovered. But how could he prove he’d actually been inside the manor house? What sort of trophy could he show his mother? He needed more than a tattered ear to prove his bravery.

As his father hurried him toward the door, Mick spotted the strange little house sitting on the table. Again, he felt something pulling him toward the happy baby and his loving family. Pausing, he glanced at the carved figures, wondering if he should take the child. It would feel so good to pull the baby from his pocket now and then and stare down at that sweet face. But how could he take the baby away from its papa and mummy?

And then Mick’s focus fell on the lamb. Small and gentle, it gleamed a silvery white in the moonlight. Legs tucked comfortably beneath it, the lamb lay curled on the table. It seemed to be smiling at Mick.

“Don’t dawdle, lad!” his father hissed, giving his arm a jerk.

As he stumbled forward, Mick shot out his hand and grabbed the lamb. It fit perfectly into his tight, hot fist, and he clenched it with the thrill of possession. He followed his father down the long corridor and past the green felt curtain. He followed him across the kitchen with its sumptuous aromas. And he followed him through the door out into the snowy night.

As they staggered through the deep snow, across the lawn toward the hedge that rimmed the lane, Mick tucked the lamb deep into the pocket of his ragged shirt. The lamb proved that he was brave and smart. It showed that he had not been discovered, and he never would be. It was his own lamb now. His treasure. And no one would ever take it away.

CHAPTER ONE

“Papa, the post has arrived,” Rosalind Treadwell called down the corridor of the two-story stone cottage. She set her tea tray on a niche table near the front door and picked up the three letters left earlier by a message boy. A smile crept across her lips as she read the name scrawled on a large yellowed envelope. “Lord Remington has written. Papa, you’ve had a letter from Sir Arthur!”

Her father, Lord Buxton, appeared in the corridor, his maroon, paisley-print dressing gown hanging to his ankles. “Has the post arrived, Rosalind?” he shouted. “Have I had a letter from Arthur?”

“Yes, Papa! I have it here.” Setting the mail on the tea tray, Rosalind shook her head. Her father was growing more hard of hearing by the day. The doctor had recommended the purchase of an amplifying ear trumpet. But Lord Buxton refused to consider the extravagant expense. He informed his daughter that the horn would be a nuisance, and it would make him look foolish besides.

Rosalind felt she would far rather sit beside the fire and have a nice chat with her father—no matter how foolish he looked with an ear trumpet—than shout back and forth to him all day long. She lifted the tray and hurried back down the long hallway toward the drawing room. The autumn chill had crept along the uncarpeted granite floors of the old house, and she found herself wishing she had worn wool stockings.

“Where is Moss?” Lord Buxton grumbled as his daughter carried their morning tea into the room. “Why have you brought the tea? Didn’t I ring for Moss? I’m certain I did.”

“This is Tuesday, Papa,” Rosalind said loudly. “Mrs. Moss always visits her son on Tuesdays.”

“And she leaves you to bring the tea? That is a dreadful situation. Appalling.” The elderly viscount seated himself in his chair beside the crackling fire and stretched out his legs. His long white nightgown barely covered his thin ankles, and the soles of his house slippers were worn through. “I wonder if the post has arrived. Did you think to look on the niche table in the corridor, my dear?”

Settling into the chair across from her father, Rosalind handed him the three envelopes. “You’ve had a letter from Sir Arthur.”

“Aha. And I shall tell you who wrote these letters directly. Now let me see, let me see.” He dug his spectacles from the pocket of his dressing gown and set them on his nose. “By george, I’ve had a letter from Arthur at last! And this one is from our barrister, Mr. Linley. Oh, dear, I hope it’s not bad news.”

Rosalind sighed as she poured the steaming tea into their cups. When Mr. Linley wrote, it was
always
bad news. Through a series of disastrous events, the estate had fallen on very hard times. Lord Buxton had been forced to sell off much of the land that had been in his family for generations. After his wife’s death, he had moved his only child out of the grand manor house and into a large gamekeeper’s cottage nearby, which was easier to heat and didn’t require as many servants. Not many months ago, he had been compelled to discharge the whole staff save Mrs. Moss, the housekeeper, who had been with the family since her own childhood. Rosalind feared it would not be long before Mr. Linley suggested they sell the paintings and statuary that were all that remained of the Buxton wealth and legacy.

“I can’t make out this name,” Lord Buxton said, passing his daughter a small white envelope. “The hand is quite ill formed, don’t you think? Obviously not an Eton boy. We were taught good penmanship in my day. Well, what does it say?”

Rosalind studied the writing. “He’s got your title right, anyway, Papa. The Right Honorable the Viscount Buxton.”

“Good, good.” Her father was opening the letter from his oldest and dearest friend. “I wonder what Artie has to say. I hope his gout hasn’t got the better of him.”

“Papa, do you know a Sir Michael Stafford? a baronet from London?”

“Oh, dear. He’s been unable to go to his club since Thursday last. The doctor gives him little hope for a reprieve. Poor Artie.”

Rosalind opened the baronet’s letter. “Shall I read this aloud, Papa?”

“Indeed, my dear. I shall take a cup of tea and say a prayer for poor Arthur. Gout. How very distressing.”

“‘My lord,’” Rosalind read as loudly as she could without shouting. “‘I trust this letter finds you in good health. I pray the enclosed introduction from your friend, Lord Remington—’”

“Remington? Does this chap know Artie?”

“Apparently so, Papa. Sir Arthur has written him an introduction.” She handed her father the note. Before he could interrupt again, she skimmed the remainder of the letter. “He wishes to come and meet you.”

“Artie? But he’s laid up with gout. Can’t even get to his club, poor chap.”

“Not Sir Arthur. The baronet, Sir Michael Stafford. He has written that he will arrive on Tuesday morning—”

She caught her breath. “But that is today! He comes from London today, Papa. And you are in your dressing gown.”

“Arthur has gout, my dear,” her father pronounced very clearly, as though it were his daughter who was hard of hearing. “He cannot travel. I’m quite sure of it. There must be some mistake.”

Rosalind let out her breath and took the introduction from her father’s lap. “Lord Remington has written that Sir Michael Stafford is a man of excellent repute, vast wealth, and prominent social connection. He owns a stocking factory in Manchester and a lace manufactory in Nottingham. He is a fine gentleman and most worthy of our acquaintance.”

“Hurry with our paintings, did you say?”

“No,
worthy
of our . . . oh, read it yourself, Papa!” Exasperated, Rosalind put the letter in her father’s hands and stood up. “How can we be expected to entertain this man today? Moss is away, and you are in your dressing gown, and we’ve only enough coal to keep one fire lit. The parlor is far too cold, and, Papa, you’re still wearing your nightcap. It’s ten o’clock in the morning!”

“Clearly a parvenu,” the viscount announced, setting the letter on the tea tray. “Baronet, ha! This Sir Michael Stafford most assuredly got his title by loaning someone a good deal of money. A peer, no doubt. Perhaps a royal. Shame the way things are going these days. Factory owners buying titles. Great houses falling to ruin. Where is Moss? This tea is quite cold, Rosalind, and you know how I feel about cold tea.”

“Papa, you must take off your nightcap!” Rosalind reached for the offending item just as the knocker sounded at the front door. “Oh no, that will be the baronet, and we shall make a spectacle of ourselves. What if he has brought his wife? She’ll tell everyone in London, and . . . oh, me!”

“Hot tea? Yes, indeed, that would be lovely, my dear.” The viscount held out his cup. “Do you suppose Moss has returned from visiting her son?”

Rosalind grabbed the white cotton cap from her father’s head and tugged the edges of his dressing gown together. “Sir Michael Stafford is here!” she shouted. “Sir Michael!”

Trying to suppress the edge of panic that rose inside her chest, she smoothed down her skirt as she hurried out of the drawing room. Although this man might be just a parvenu who had bought himself a title, he was a baronet all the same. He was a guest, too, and they hadn’t had a visitor at Bridgeton Cottage in many months. Moss would not be back until this afternoon, and that meant Rosalind had only stale biscuits to offer, and even worse—the tea was cold!

Glancing at her reflection in a mirror as she raced for the door, Rosalind let out a groan. At best, her mass of curly brown hair was difficult to manage. Today, with the threat of rain, it positively had a life of its own. She pinched her cheeks, hoping to put some color into them, and turned the doorknob.

The gentleman standing in the morning mist might have stepped from an illustration in one of Rosalind’s favorite novels. A dashing prince perhaps. Or a nobleman from some far-off land. Tall, elegantly dressed in a black frock coat, a white shirt, and a bright red ascot, he swept his top hat from his head. Thick, dark hair framed the bluest eyes Rosalind had ever seen. He had an aristocratic nose, finely formed lips, and a smile that seemed almost heavenly.

“Good morning,” he addressed her, extending a gray-gloved hand to present his engraved card. “Sir Michael Stafford, at your service.”

“Oh,” was all she could manage.

“I have an appointment with Lord Buxton.”

“I see, but . . .” She took the card. “But Lord Buxton is . . . he is occupied at the moment.”

“Then I shall be pleased to wait for him in the parlor. Will you be so good as to show me in?”

Before Rosalind could move, the man stepped around her and walked straight into the front room. She covered her cheeks with her hands for a moment, imagining what he must think of the frigid parlor with its tattered curtains and empty fireplace. Had the room even been dusted in years?

“Sir Michael,” she said, coming up behind him, “I’m afraid this is not a good day for a visit.”

“Why not?” He swung around, eyeing her in mild displeasure. “I sent word of my arrival some time ago. Please inform your master that I have come.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Mortified, Rosalind hurried out of the room and raced down the hall to the drawing room, where her father waited. Sir Michael believed she was a housekeeper! Oh, it might as well be true.

In the past years of hardship, she had lost all hope of marriage and a family of her own. Nearly thirty now, she had learned to take joy in serving her aging father’s needs, playing the small pianoforte in the parlor, and reading the countless books that had been carted over from the manor house library. Rosalind knew she would end an old maid, sitting by the fire with Moss or some other helper at her elbow. If only she could be allowed that peaceful existence. Instead, she must bear the humiliation of displaying her father’s poverty before this handsome man who had so much money that he had bought himself a title.

“Papa,” she cried as she burst into the drawing room. “He is here! Sir Michael Stafford has come. He wishes to speak to you. You must send a message telling him to go away. You must tell him you cannot see him today.”

“Did you bring the hot tea, my dear?” Her father smiled peaceably. “If you will pop the cozy over the pot, I shall read you the letter from Arthur. He describes his gout in great detail. Such a dreadful situation. Do you know he cannot even go to his club?”

“Sir Michael Stafford!” Rosalind shouted at her father. “Stafford! He has come!”

“Thank you very kindly for the introduction, madam.” The man himself strolled into the room and gave her a polite nod. Then he pointed to the mail on the tea table. “Lord Buxton, I see you received my letter. I trust it finds you in good health.”

The viscount stood from his chair and gave his visitor a bow. “Stafford, is it? You know Lord Remington, I take it. Sir Arthur is a very good friend of mine. School chum, actually. Eton.”

“Yes, sir. His son, William, is my closest companion.”

“Aha.” The viscount glanced at Rosalind for assistance.

“He knows Lord Remington’s son!” she said, leaning toward him.

“Very good, very good. Do sit down, will you, Sir Michael?” Her father settled back into his chair, seemingly unaware that his white nightgown was showing again. “As you can see, we’re a bit at sixes and sevens this morning. The housekeeper has gone out to visit her son, and the tea is quite cold. Rosalind, will you fetch another pot, please? There’s a good girl.”

Sliding the tea tray from the table between the two men, Rosalind stole another glance at Sir Michael. Well, he might be handsome, but he was also very proud. He stared past her as if she didn’t exist, his attention focused wholly on her father. What the man thought he could get out of Lord Buxton only he and God knew.