'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories

by Christi Caldwell

  “We can cook our feast down here,” Chloe said. “No need to freeze our toes on Christmas night.”

  “You want to celebrate the holidays where we’ve been so happy,” Faith said, setting the kettle on the parlor stove. “So do I. I feel as if we’re letting Grandpapa down by losing the store, but some things cannot be helped.”

  Mr. Farris must have reached the same conclusion, for he’d not graced the bookshop since he’d kissed Chloe beneath the mistletoe. She’d pondered that kiss often, and wondered if Mr. Farris would attend the auction on Wednesday.

  “We have much to be grateful for,” Chloe said. “We will arrive at Great-uncle’s with some coin in our pocket, a willingness to work hard, and many happy memories. Others have far less.”

  She thought of Mr. Farris, and the dirty boy he’d been. If his employer had rescued him from that fate, then of course he must be loyal to the bank. Still…

  A pounding on the door interrupted her wishful thinking.

  “Somebody has forgotten to purchase a Christmas token and cannot wait until tomorrow to make their choice,” Faith said, unlocking the door and opening it. “Mr. Farris. Good evening.”

  He stood in the doorway, hatless for once, snow dusting his dark locks. “Ladies, may I come in?”

  He held several parcels, his boots were damp about the toes, and his complexion was ruddy.

  “You’ve been out in the elements,” Chloe said. “Of course you may come in.

  “Something smells good,” Faith murmured. “Good and hot.”

  Mr. Farris put his packages on the counter. “I wish I could say I bring tidings of great joy, but all I have is some roast goose, fresh bread, a potato and cheddar casserole, some—”

  “You brought a feast,” Chloe said, taking the largest package from him. “A holiday feast.”

  “And plum pudding,” Faith added, holding up a small blue crock. “You brought hot plum pudding. You must stay and join us.”

  Mr. Farris stared at his toes, he brushed melting snow from his sleeves, he looked anywhere but at Chloe. “One doesn’t want to intrude, especially not on an occasion typically reserved for family gatherings, but I know how lonely the holidays can be when a loved one has recently passed.”

  Chloe unwrapped his scarf from his neck. “I suspect, ten years from now, we will still miss Grandpapa at the holidays. You must stay, Mr. Farris. We can’t possibly finish all this food ourselves, and we would appreciate the company.”

  “The food will get cold if you stand about and argue,” Faith added. “Please do stay.”

  He stayed, he partook of the feast, and he even had a small helping of the plum pudding. He read to them from the Gospel of Luke, as Grandpapa had always done, the story of the lowly baby and the young parents far from home. He helped carry the leftover food upstairs, where the cold ensured it would keep well.

  Then he escorted Chloe downstairs, and much to her surprise, she realized her Christmas had been happy after all.

  “Do you go home to a chilly garret, Mr. Farris?” She blew out the candles on the mantel as Mr. Farris lowered the chandelier.

  “Not a garret, but chilly enough. I have rooms near the bank. I strive to be economical with my coal expenditures so I have more money for books.”

  Why must he mention the dratted, almighty bank? Some of the evening’s warmth faded as Chloe passed Mr. Farris the candle snuffer.

  “Will you be at the auction the day after tomorrow?”

  He lifted the glass chimneys with his handkerchief and put out the candles one by one. “I have been wanting to tell you something, but haven’t found the words.”

  Oh, please not now. Not a declaration of sentiments that could go nowhere.

  “We have privacy,” Chloe said, for Faith had remained abovestairs. “If you are bidding on the property for Mr. Wentworth, you need not apologize. But for him, you’d likely have starved. I know that.”

  Mr. Farris passed her the snuffer and raised the chandelier back to the cross beam. “Mr. Wentworth would be the first to tell you that he doesn’t believe in charity. He found a likely lad, willing to work hard for a fair wage, and that’s the extent of it, to hear him tell it.”

  “Have all of his likely lads become solicitors, Mr. Farris?”

  He closed the curtain over the shop’s front window, casting the interior in shadows Chloe had been able to navigate before she’d put up her hair. This was her home, her livelihood, her everything, and yet, come the new year, it would all be taken away.

  That reality was too awful to grasp, and too sad to ignore, much like Grandpapa’s final illness.

  “I am one of several solicitors in Mr. Wentworth’s employ,” Mr. Farris said, “which is partly why turning in my resignation without notice earlier today bothered me much less than I thought it would. The bank does not need me.”

  Chloe set aside the broom she’d been using to tidy up around the parlor stove. “He sacked you? That rotten, presuming, hard-hearted, miserable—he sacked you? On Christmas Day?”

  “You haven’t even met the man, and he’d apparently do well to avoid your notice. Mr. Wentworth did not sack me. I quit. We had a difference of opinion.”

  She took Mr. Farris by the hand and led him to the worn sofa at the back of the biographies. “I argued with Grandpapa all the time. If Mr. Wentworth is so delicate that he cannot tolerate some honesty from a subordinate, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  “I told him that if he cared at all for the bank’s reputation, he’d simply take over the mortgage on the bookshop, and let you and Faith carry on with your grandfather’s legacy.”

  “Banks will not lend to a pair of young women, Mr. Farris.”

  He covered her hand with both of his. “I know that, but Mr. Wentworth has sisters, he knows what it is to be poor. I thought he’d make an exception, but he never makes exceptions. He contends that Barnstable would never have agreed to simply transfer the mortgage in any case.”

  To sit side by side with Mr. Farris, holding hands in the darkened bookshop was comforting, though the topic was not comforting at all.

  “I suspect Mr. Wentworth was correct. Perhaps he’ll give you your job back if you apologize, Mr. Farris.”

  “I don’t want my job back, and please call me Aidan.”

  “Aidan.” Saying his name should not be a guilty pleasure, much less sad, but it was both. “Pride goeth, and all that. Faith and I will present ourselves on our great-uncle’s doorstep as pattern cards of humility, you may be sure of that.”

  “I quarreled with Mr. Wentworth, Chloe. He seemed to think that if Barnstable wouldn’t let anybody else take over your mortgage, that was an end to the discussion. Mr. Wentworth is still focused on buying this property. He’s been letting the other merchants know of his interest, which means they won’t bid against him. He’ll get the property for a song, and you and Miss Faith will be left with nothing.”

  “He’d do that? Give employment to a pack of wild boys then turn around and leave Faith and me destitute?”

  Aidan brought her hand to his lips. “I don’t know. Mr. Wentworth asked me what token I’d like for Christmas, if I could name any gift worth any sum. I told him that for Christmas, I’d like a clear conscience, and if I could not enjoy that boon while in his employ, then I considered myself free to pursue other opportunities.”

  Grandpapa had always liked Mr. Farris. “That was courageous of you. I hope you haven’t made a very powerful enemy for nothing.”

  Aidan tucked an arm around her shoulders as if they’d sat like this often, cozied up at the end of a day tending the shop.

  “He’s not like that. He’s fair, he always keeps his word, and he cannot abide gratuitous drama. I, on the other hand, love a good tale, the more exciting the better.”

  The conversation drifted to books then, about which Aidan was nearly as enthusiastic as Chloe.

  “You must come by and help tomorrow,” Chloe said. “Boxing Day is always terribly busy, and I’d like the company.�
�

  He rose. “Until tomorrow then, and I won’t let you face that damned auction without an ally, Chloe. Had I known…”

  He fell silent, as he helped Chloe to get to her feet. She kept his hand in hers. “Had you known that Mr. Wentworth would bid on the shop, it would have changed nothing, Aidan. A messenger, a clerk, somebody would have told him of grandfather’s passing. Barnstable would be just as greedy, Grandfather would still have let the accounting fall into disarray. You can go to bed tonight with a clear conscience.”

  Which was… something. That he’d parted ways with his employer troubled Chloe, but a man who’d nearly memorized Waverly deserved more than contracts and ledgers to fill his day.

  “You mean that, don’t you?” he said. “You hold none of this against me. You’re not even angry with Wentworth.”

  “I am very angry with Phineas Barnstable. Grandpapa regretted borrowing from him, and I wish we weren’t losing the shop. Sometimes though, a fresh start, whether we want one or not, is a boon. Goodnight, Aidan.”

  The mistletoe was a good eight feet away, but Chloe kissed him anyway. She kissed him in gratitude for a lovely and unlooked for Christmas feast, for an evening spent in good company, and for the wonderful gift of his friendship.

  And then she kissed him because she wanted to, and because in less than two weeks, she might well be kissing him good-bye forever.

  When Aidan left the shop a good hour later, the streets were empty, darkness had fallen, and a falling snow had brought a peaceful hush to Christmas night. Chloe watched him go, until his footsteps had filled with fresh snow, and even the shop grew chilly.

  Aidan had expected that delivering an ultimatum to Mr. Wentworth would have resulted in all manner of misgivings and self-doubt. Instead, he’d spent Boxing Day at the bookshop, reading to small children, discussing poetry with Mr. Nelson, and getting ambushed by Mrs. Draper under the mistletoe. The mood in the shop had been jolly despite the sale scheduled for the next day, though the shadows in Chloe’s eyes tore at his heart.

  Were they truly to have only one day together before the dratted bankers wrecked everything with their ambition and greed? Aidan had some money saved, true, but not enough to outbid Quinn Wentworth. Not nearly enough.

  Aidan went back to his rooms near the bank after an evening meal of leftovers with the Thatchers. The sale was tomorrow morning, and the ladies had simply tidied up the shop as if cleaning up their store after any other busy day. Their good cheer, their courage, broke his heart, and thus he didn’t notice Quinn Wentworth until he’d nearly plowed him into the snow.

  “Mr. Farris, good evening. Did you enjoy your day at the bookshop?”

  Of course, Wentworth would know that. “I did, sir. I am surprised to admit I enjoyed my day as a bookseller very much.”

  Mr. Wentworth fell in step beside him, as if they were off to the club for a hand of cards, though Wentworth only belonged to clubs for form’s sake.

  “Why would that surprise you?” Wentworth asked. “You’ve had your nose in a book more or less since you came to work for me. One marvels at such devotion to a lot of printed words. I’ve never understood it myself.”

  “Books aren’t simply printed words, sir. They are companionship for the lonely, enlightenment for the curious mind, diversion from life’s hardships. Books are wisdom and inspiration and how we ensure each generation can learn from the previous ones, and each nation from others.”

  They came to an intersection where a crossing sweeper shivered in the gathering shadows. The poor lad looked to be about nine years old and three-quarters frozen.

  “In all your years at the bank,” Wentworth said, “have you ever waxed as eloquent about commerce as you just did about a musty old lot of books, Mr. Farris? Has the law ever inspired you to such panegyrics? Watching the customers and tellers in the bank lobby, are you ever as fascinated as you have been with Sheridan’s plays?”

  A week ago, Aidan would have measured his answer, but he was free now, of the bank and of the need to gauge every word for its impact on his former employer.

  “Commerce and finance are important, sir, but unlike you I have no passion for them. I had more joy from one day in the book shop than I did from ten years at the bank. I apologize if that sounds ungrateful, because I am very grateful to you and Mr. Penrose for all you’ve done for me.”

  Wentworth’s path would take him one direction, Aidan’s another.

  “Never apologize for being honest,” Mr. Wentworth said. “And don’t you dare bid against me tomorrow.”

  So much for pleasantries with a former employee. “I’ll bid against you if I jolly well please to, sir, and there’s nothing you can say to it.”

  Was that a smile? Whatever it was, Mr. Wentworth’s expression was too fleeting for Aidan to parse.

  “You truly do have a passion for books, Mr. Farris. Do not bid against me, please, lest it be perceived that I’m bidding against myself. I’ve kept news of our recent discord to myself. I want no hint of irregularity about tomorrow’s proceedings lest the courts interfere or Barnstable cry foul. Have the young ladies speak for themselves at the auction.”

  What was he up to? “The young ladies?”

  “The Misses Thatcher. Comely, bookish, hardworking. I believe you’ve made their acquaintance. If they seek to thwart me at the auction tomorrow, let them bid against me openly. I won’t take it amiss. Just the opposite.”

  The crossing sweeper looked up from where he was hunched against a steaming barrel. “Evenin’, Mr. Wentworth.”

  The boy’s face was grimy, he had neither gloves nor scarf, and his boots were soaked.

  “Any news, Leonidas?” Mr. Wentworth asked.

  “Just busy people today, sir. Everybody paying calls, dashing about. A sleigh overturned on Oxford Street, and Mr. Pritchard-the-curate fell on his arse because the Gazette didn’t get its walkway shoveled clear. My barrel’s almost full.”

  Mr. Wentworth passed the boy a coin. “Go home, lad, and thanks for the report.”

  “Happy Christmas, Mr. Wentworth!” The boy darted off, coin clutched in his little fist.

  “You expect him to loiter about in this cold simply to bring you gossip?” Aidan asked.

  Mr. Wentworth adjusted his scarf, a purple cashmere that wound several times about his neck. “His uncle beats him if he abandons the intersection before dark. I merely provide the lad some discreet supplemental income. I’ve suggested he quietly pass that money directly to his mother after the uncle has taken all of the child’s other vales. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Farris—you and the young ladies.”

  Aidan walked the rest of the way home in solitude. On the one hand, Chloe and Faith should not have to watch as their livelihood was sold out from under them. On the other hand, the bidders would assemble on the bookshop’s very steps, and Chloe would want to look Barnstable in the eye as he wrecked two innocent lives.

  Then too, Aidan had seen the coin Mr. Wentworth had passed to that shivering little boy.

  Half a crown. A man who gave a poor child that much money believed in charity, compassion, and doing unto others, despite a lot of braying and posturing to the contrary.

  Aidan would stand with Chloe and Faith tomorrow, and hope for the best.

  Chapter 5

  “For a man who claims to eschew drama,” Joshua Penrose said, “you are going to great lengths to make an entrance.”

  “The shoppers have turned the streets into a filthy quagmire,” Quinn replied as the carriage rolled along. “Of course I’d take the town coach to a business appointment.”

  “An auction is not an appointment.”

  Perhaps not, but Quinn was determined to transact some business on the bookshop’s steps. The town coach made a statement of sober luxury, being finished in black lacquer with red trim. He’d taken this coach in payment for a debt incurred by an impecunious viscount, and regarded it as a reminder to one and all that Quinn Wentworth was no respecter of titles.

  A debt wa
s a debt.

  When the coach came to a halt, Quinn waited while the liveried footman set down the steps and opened the door.

  “Shall I bid for you?” Joshua asked.

  “You shall not. The merchants are expecting me to participate in this farce personally, so participate, I shall.”

  He climbed from the coach and let all the gawkers have a good look. He was attired no differently than most men who engaged in commerce for a living, but he was taller than most, and clad a prize fighter’s physique in Bond Street finery.

  “Mr. Wentworth,” Barnstable called above the murmuring of the crowd. “So glad you could join us. The auction will start in”—he flashed his pocket watch—“five minutes.”

  The merchants had turned out in quantity, which was gratifying. If the sale was well attended, that made the results harder to attack from any legal angle.

  Quinn ignored Barnstable, and ignored the whispers circulating through the bidders. “Damned Wentworth,” and “rich as Old Scratch,” figured prominently, as usual. To the pair of young ladies standing off to the side with Aidan Farris, Quinn tipped his hat.

  The young ladies glowered at him, which was entirely appropriate. Farris’s expression was admirably devoid of emotion.

  At least the fellow had learned that much.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Joshua murmured. “All of London will see you render those young women homeless. We can put the damned branch on some other street corner.”

  “I am very certain I want to do this. One must be willing to pay a cost when pursuing a worthwhile objective.”

  The bells from St. Paul’s tolled the hour, and the crowd grew quiet.

  Barnstable climbed the shop’s front steps and held up his hand. The usual patter ensued, about how fine the structure was, how many rooms it featured, how well respected Mr. Thatcher had been, and what a conscientious owner.

  Barnstable was stalling, hoping for an even greater crowd, until somebody bellowed from the back of the group.

  “Get on w’ it, man. Can’t ye see the young misses are cold?”