A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “Nor have I. Never married, actually. Haven’t given it much thought, though I’ve been advised I should. Heirs, you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Should I ever have children, I would permit them to explore the dales and fells,” he mused, recalling his own wanderings across valleys and hills covered in feathery green bracken. “I would give them a boat and let them row out on the tarns.”

  “Did you have a boat?”

  He nodded. “Two dogs, as well. One of them could go right over a stone fence in a single leap. But the other . . . I had to slide my arms under his belly and heave him over—a great mound of slobbery fur, gigantic ears, long pink tongue, cold wet nose—”

  Pausing, he realized the woman was laughing. “Oh, dear, I can hardly stir the crumpets.” Chuckling, she covered the bowl with a dish towel and set the batter on the hearth to rise. “We always had corgis. Such dogs! They’re more like cats, you know, always nosing into things they shouldn’t. And terribly affectionate. We had to leave our corgi in Wales, Mrs. Rutherford and I, when we came to England. Griffith was his name, and such a wonderful dog I have never known. Although they do shed quite dreadfully.”

  Beaumontfort took a sip of the tea the woman had just poured for him and felt life seep back into his bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat before a fire in his stocking feet. The aroma of fresh yeast rising from the crumpet batter filled the air, and the sweet milky tea warmed his stomach. The sight of the slender creature stirring a hearty stew, pouring his tea, and tending the fire transported the earl to a time and place he could hardly remember. Maybe it was one he’d never known at all.

  “How have you come here, madam?” he asked her. “And why?”

  “God sent me.” She pushed a tendril of hair back into her bun and settled on a stool near his chair. “You see, many years ago Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford and their two sons left Cumbria and journeyed to Wales to find profitable work. After a time, the men became partners in a coal mine, and the sons married.”

  “One of them was fortunate enough to find you?”

  “My husband was a good man, and all I have ever desired in life is the warmth of home and the love of family. The Rutherford men labored in the mine until an explosion took their lives.” For a moment, she twisted the end of her apron string. “After that, the coal mine began to fail. Miners were afraid to work it, you see. Mrs. Rutherford decided she must return to England, where she owns a small cottage and a bit of land. She urged her sons’ wives to return to our own villages where we might find new husbands. My sister-in-law agreed to go, but I would not. And so I came to Cumbria.”

  “But you told me God sent you.”

  “Indeed He did. Mrs. Rutherford had taught me about Christianity. My family had followed the old ways, a religion with little hope and even less joy. But Mrs. Rutherford explained things I had never heard—how God’s Son came into this world to suffer the death I rightly deserved, how Christ rose to life again, how His Spirit lives inside every believer. I became a Christian, but I hungered to learn more. After my husband’s death, I couldn’t bear to part with Mrs. Rutherford. She’d become more than a mother to me—the only family I really knew. Though she was quite firm in ordering me back to my own village, I begged her not to send me away. Her God had become my God, you see, and that bonded us. I told her I would follow her to England and make her people my own. And so we journeyed here together, Mrs. Rutherford and I.”

  The earl sat in silence as the woman rose from her stool and began pouring batter into crumpet rings on a hot griddle. As a boy, he’d become acquainted with a village woman very much like the elder Mrs. Rutherford. Her husband had been a distant cousin of little means, but they had welcomed their landlord’s child into their cottage during his long country rambles. Reading from her Bible, the dear woman had taught William the message of salvation—and he had become a Christian. Could the woman in his half-forgotten past be the same Mrs. Rutherford who had been like a mother to this intriguing lady?

  “Where is the cottage in which you live?” he asked, straightening in his chair. “Is it just beyond the village, down a dirt lane lined with lavender? Has it a thatched roof and climbing roses near the front door? Pink roses, I think. Yes, and stone walls with small windows?”

  “Have you been there, sir?” She slid the steaming crumpets onto a plate and turned to him, wonder lighting her brown eyes. “I understood you never went down to the village. People say you’re always so—”

  “Old and crotchety?”

  “Busy,” she said with a laugh. She scooped a spoonful of strawberry jam onto his plate and set it beside the platter of cold meats on a small table near his chair. In a moment, she had ladled out a bowl of savory-smelling stew. The table’s boards fairly groaned under the feast laid upon them, and Beaumontfort anticipated the meal as though it had been prepared for a king. More than that, he looked forward to further conversation with Mrs. Rutherford of the sparkling eyes and coal black hair.

  “I hope I’m not too crotchety to be joined at high tea by a woman of your fine culinary skills,” he said. “Will you sit with me, madam?”

  She swallowed and gave him another of those awkward curtsies. “Thank you, sir, but I must take the leavings down to the village,” she said softly. “It has been a difficult year, and many depend upon me.”

  “And then there’s Sukey with her influenza-inflicted family.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He studied her, wondering at a woman who could so easily warm his feet, his stomach, and his heart—all at a go. This brown-garbed creature was nothing like the bejeweled court ladies who often accompanied the earl to the opera or the theatre. They would label her plain. Common. Simple.

  Beaumontfort found her anything but. She had enchanted him, and he meant to know how she had managed it. Was it the faith in Christ that radiated from her deep, chocolate-hued eyes? Was it her devotion to her mother-in-law? Or was it simply the crumpets?

  “Before you leave,” he said to the woman bending over the stewpot. “You tell me you work in the kitchens?”

  “Yes, sir. Almost a year.” Drinking down a deep breath, she lifted the stewpot’s arched handle from its hook. “I’m usually in the larder. Butter, you know. I’m very good at churning.”

  As she started across the room, the earl could do nothing but leap to his stockinged feet and take the heavy pot from her hands. Fancy this, he thought, realizing how fortunate it was that the house had been empty on this night. He carried the stew out the door into the dark night and across the wet snow, soaking his stockings and chilling his toes all over again.

  “Mrs. Rutherford, you will work henceforth in the upper house,” he instructed the woman as she lifted her skirts and climbed aboard the vegetable wagon. “Mrs. Riddle will see to the transfer of position in the morning. Perhaps you could polish the silver in the parlors. Better than churning butter anyway. I shall tell my housekeeper to put you there, if you like.”

  “Oh, no, sir! Please, I cannot leave the kitchen. Cook needs me in the larder, and Mrs. Riddle will be most displeased to have her staff turned topsy-turvy.” She gathered her gray wool shawl tightly about her shoulders. “What about the leavings? The villagers depend on my help. Mrs. Rutherford and I . . . well, we also eat the leavings, sir. We have hardly enough money to buy food.”

  “You’ll earn higher wages on Mrs. Riddle’s staff, and I’ll instruct Cook to allow you the leavings as she has.” He picked up the horse’s reins and set them in her gloved hands. “But you, Mrs. Rutherford, and the other Mrs. Rutherford . . . I’m afraid I must address you by your Christian name, or we shall be always in a muddle.”

  “Always, sir?”

  “When we speak together. You and I.” He felt flustered suddenly, as though he’d said too much. But why shouldn’t he have what he wanted? He was the earl of Beaumontfort, after all, and she was merely . . . What had she called herself? Ah, yes. Gwyneth.

  “You and Mrs. Rutherford wi
ll be sent a portion from my own table each day,” he said quickly. “Good evening then, Gwyneth.”

  He swung around and headed for the kitchen door again, hoping no one had noticed the earl of Beaumontfort traipsing about the vegetable wagon in wet stockings.

  “Good evening,” her voice sounded through the chill night air. “And thank you . . . William.”

  “Again, Gwynnie?” Mrs. Rutherford trundled across the wooden floor of the single large room in her thatched-roof cottage. In her arms she carried a heavy basket covered by a white linen embroidered with a large monogrammed B. She set the gift on the pine table beside the fire and turned to the chair where her daughter-in-law sat paring potatoes.

  “But ’tis t’ fourth evenin’ in a row t’ earl has sent us dinner,” she said in her native Lakeland lilt. “Whatever can it mean? And look at you, my dear, you’ve peeled t’ potato until there’s almost nothin’ left of t’ poor thing.”

  Gwyneth studied the small white nubbin in her palm and realized that most of the potato now lay in the bowl of parings. She tossed the remainder into a pot of bubbling water on the fire and sank back into her rocking chair. “Oh, Mum, I haven’t wanted to trouble you, but everything has become difficult at the House. Terribly difficult.”

  “Don’t tell me Mrs. Riddle is treatin’ you ill again.” The older woman sat down on a stool beside the chair and took Gwyneth’s hand in both of her own. “That housekeeper has no heart. I can’t imagine how she rose to such a position. Has she been spiteful to you?”

  “No, ’tis not that. Mrs. Riddle is as unkind as ever, but ’tis not her at all. ’Tis—”

  “Nah, for why would we have such feasts brought to us each night? Is it Mr. Yardley, then? Is he tryin’ to woo you, my dear? Heaven help us, that butler is old enough to be your grandfather and thrice a widower already.”

  “No, no.” Gwyneth lifted the old woman’s hands and held them against her cheek. “’Tis nothing of the sort. ’Tis just that everything is suddenly so . . . so confusing. For one thing, I’ve been promoted into the upper house.”

  “But that’s marvelous!” Her olive green eyes brightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “And I’ve been assigned to polish the silver in the parlors.” Agitated, Gwyneth rose and began to set out the meal they had received from Brackendale Manor. Lamb! When was the last time she’d eaten mutton? Oh, why was the earl doing this?

  “Silver polishin’s t’ easiest work in t’ house,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “How lovely for you!”

  “And my wages are increased.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “No, Mum. You don’t understand.”

  “I can see that, my dear.” After she’d offered the blessing for the meal, Mrs. Rutherford fell silent.

  Gwyneth picked up her fork, wondering how she could explain the whirlwind that had blown through her life since that evening in the kitchen with the earl of Beaumontfort. Her tidy, intimate world had been tossed into disarray like a haystack in a storm.

  It hadn’t always been so. From the moment Gwyneth had stepped into the snug stone cottage with its tiny windows and blazing fire, she had felt at home. Just as every piece of sturdy white china nestled comfortably in the old Welsh dresser, so Gwyneth’s life had been ordered and tidy. On Mondays she baked, and on Fridays she washed. And every Sunday she and Mum walked to the village church to worship their Lord. Each day had its familiar, if sometimes lonely, routine. Gwyneth swept the floor each morning with the straw broom that hung beside the fire, and she nestled under the thick woolen blankets of her narrow bed each night. Nearby in her own bed, Mum would snore softly, a gentle reminder that all the world was at peace.

  Now Gwyneth cut a bite of mutton and then another and another, unable to eat anything. Her stomach churned and her palms were damp. She wished desperately that she could similarly divide her thoughts into neat little squares that could be easily managed.

  “Gwynnie.” The old woman’s hand stopped the knife. “T’ good Lord is never t’ cause of confusion and despair. What troubles you? You must tell me t’ truth. All of it.”

  Gwyneth lowered her hands. “I explained to you about the night I served crumpets to the earl. Now, do you know he must have them every day for tea? And Mrs. Riddle does not appreciate my presence in the upper house, because I didn’t work my way up as the other girls did. I’ve been assigned the silver polishing, the rug beating—all the easiest work. Every night this wonderful food is brought to our door. And every day when I’m polishing in the parlor, the earl . . . well, he says good morning to me, and he asks after you, and he inquires as to the health of Sukey’s family, and he wonders whether I still think him crotchety—”

  “Crotchety?”

  “Yes.” Gwyneth stuck a bite of lamb in her mouth. “Crotchety.”

  Mrs. Rutherford looked across at the sweet woman whose confusion was written clearly in her brown eyes. Mum gave a slight shake of the head and resumed her dinner. The forks and knives clinked in the silence of the room, while Gwyneth pondered her turmoil. How silly to be upset when all was going well. Had she no confidence in her Savior’s ability to guide her life?

  “I understand what troubles you, Gwynnie,” the old woman announced finally. “T’ earl of Beaumontfort has taken a fancy to you.”

  “To me?” Gwyneth gave a laugh of disbelief. “Absolutely not! He likes my crumpets, ’tis all. I gave the man a warm supper on a cold night, and he wished to reward me for my loyalty. But my promotion has not brought me joy as he had hoped. On the contrary, I’m resented and envied by the rest of the staff.”

  “Do you wish to go back to t’ kitchen, then?”

  “How could I? The earl would be most offended. Did you know that each evening I find twice the leavings I did before he came? Certainly he has companions who visit him for shooting and riding and playing at chess. He brought his personal staff from London, as well. But I’m quite sure they are not eating such great quantities of food. Mum, I believe the earl has ordered Cook to leave out more than usual.”

  “Aha, ’tis just as I hoped and prayed then. Wee Willie has grown up into a fine man and an honor to t’ titles bestowed upon him when his dear father passed on, rest his soul.”

  “Wee Willie?”

  “T’ earl, of course. I knew him when he was but a lad. You must accept t’ blessin’ God has chosen to lay upon you, my dear. Soon enough t’ staff will come to accept you in t’ upper house, you’ll see.”

  With a yawn, Mum set her plate in the dish pail and started for the narrow bed across the room. It was just past seven o’clock, and Gwyneth knew there would be long hours of silence ahead. Too much time to think lonely thoughts.

  She lifted another bite to her lips, but her focus remained on the flickering fire. For an instant she imagined she’d caught sight of the exact spark that twinkled in the earl’s blue eyes when he strode into the parlor each morning. He always spoke to her so briefly, and her replies to him were properly humble and sparse. Yet their few words had become the high point of each day to her. How could she have allowed it?

  Dear Lord, she poured out, ’tis not the resentment of the staff that troubles me, is it? ’Tis not the easy labor and extra food. ’Tis him. For the first time since my husband died, I feel alive in the presence of a man. Oh, God, why does it have to be the earl?

  “I’ll just put out t’ lamp, my dear,” Mrs. Rutherford called. “We don’t want to use up what’s left of our oil.”

  “No, Mum.”

  “Would you fetch a bit more coal for t’ fire? ’Tis so chilly—” She paused, listening. “Now who could be outside at this hour?”

  At the sound of a knock on the door—though she had no idea of the nature of their visitor—Gwyneth’s heart clenched tightly, and her hand flew to the stray tendrils that had slid from her hair.

  “Glory be,” Mrs. Rutherford said as she peered through the small window beside the door. “’Tis wee Willie himself!”

  CHAPTER TWO
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br />   Gwyneth set her knife on the plate and wiped her hands on her apron as Mum opened the front door. Oh, she was a mess—her fingers wrinkled from the starchy potato water, her sleeves damp to the elbows, her skirt hem muddy from trekking through the village with the night’s leavings. She had no gloves, no time to do up her hair, and she felt quite certain she smelled of onions. Why now? Why him!

  “Mrs. Rutherford?” the earl’s deep voice sounded across the room.

  “She’s just finishin’ her dinner,” the older woman answered. “I shall be happy to—”

  “But it’s you I’ve come to see, of course,” he cut in. “I had spoken with Gwy—with your daughter-in-law of your earlier life here in Cumbria, Mrs. Rutherford. I wondered if you might be the dear woman I recalled from my boyhood rambles. And indeed you are. You used to feed me strawberry tarts in the summertime and strong tea in the winter. Do you remember?”

  “Aye, of course,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “How could I forget wee Willie and his two great hairy dogs muckin’ up my fresh-mopped floors? Do come inside out of t’ chill, boy.”

  Gwyneth rose from the table as Beaumontfort spoke for a few moments with his equerry, who waited outside. Why had the earl come to their cottage? Couldn’t she at least have worn her blue dress on this day? Heavens, she was in her stocking feet!

  Oh, Father, he didn’t come to see me. Please keep my thoughts in order. Please help me to be humble and to think of Mrs.—

  “And I wished to see your daughter-in-law, of course,” the earl said, stepping into the house and shutting the door behind him. “Gwyneth has been a most welcome addition to my household staff, Mrs. Rutherford. I have never seen the silver gleam as it does these days.”

  Gwyneth flushed and attempted one of her hopeless curtsies. No one taught children such manners in a Welsh mining village. Her legs felt as tangled and limp as a bowl of hot noodles. She drew the best chair before the fire for the earl.

  “My lord,” she managed. “Welcome to our cottage.”