“Thank you, Gwyneth.” His blue eyes met hers, and she recognized the spark she had seen in the fire. “I was just down from the House having a look round the village, as you recommended.”
“Oh, sir, I didn’t—”
“A most useful suggestion.” He gave her a smile that carved gentle lines in his handsome face. “I have called on the family of Sukey Ironmonger. It appears her children are well and her husband is on the mend. He plans to return to his labors at the smithy tomorrow, and Sukey will return to my kitchen. I believe we shall have fresh bread again at Brackendale.”
Gwyneth tried another little bow. “Many thanks for your generosity, my lord. The extra leavings have been greatly appreciated.”
“And t’ lovely meals here at t’ cottage, too,” Mrs. Rutherford put in. “You’re too kind.”
“Not at all, madam. Do be so good as to join me here by the fire, both of you. I should like to discuss a certain matter of some urgency.”
Gwyneth shot her mother-in-law a look of desperation, hoping she might be allowed to go out for more coals or something. But Mrs. Rutherford, her face wreathed in smiles, settled in the rocking chair and picked up her knitting as though this were merely a neighbor come round for a spot of tea. Willing her heart to slow down, Gwyneth took the only other chair in the house.
How fine the earl looked in his black frock coat and starched white collar. His dark hair, perfectly trimmed, framed the deep-set blue eyes that had so entranced Gwyneth. But it was his hands, his strong fingers ornamented with a gold signet ring, that reminded her of his stature and wealth. She must not forget the vast gulf between them.
“First, I wish to offer my condolences to you on the loss of your husband and sons, Mrs. Rutherford,” the earl began. “Your return to the village has been the cause of much speculation. I am told your situation in Wales grew bitter indeed.”
“’Twas I who was bitter.” The old woman studied the fire as her needles clicked softly. “When I first returned to England from Wales, sir, I felt quite sure t’ good Lord had forsaken me. I had nothin’ left. My few savin’s were lost to me, along with t’ only family I’d ever known.”
“My deepest sympathy.”
“’Twas a low time, but only because I’d taken my eyes off t’ cross of Christ. God Himself suffered greater loss than I ever did, and willin’ly, too. Slowly, I began to understand that He’d given me a new home and a new family. Here I am in t’ dear cottage I have loved all my life. And Gwynnie has become my daughter, my friend, and at times, even my mother—tuckin’ me into bed at night and makin’ sure I eat my vegetables.”
The earl looked at Gwyneth. “Well done, madam.”
“’Tis I who have reaped the blessings of my life with Mrs. Rutherford. She has always been so kind to me, and I’m happy to do what I can for her.”
“Which is why I have come with a proposal.” He shrugged out of his frock coat and cleared his throat. “I, ah . . . but I’m afraid I missed my tea earlier today. Might you prepare some crumpets, Gwyneth?”
“Of course, sir, at once.” She leapt to her feet, thankful to have something to do with her hands. “And tea, my lord?”
“Only if you’ll agree to return to your previous form of address.”
“Oh, sir, I—”
“William is my name. I should thank you to use it.”
“Yes, sir.” She raced to the shelf where they kept their dry goods, her mouth parched and her heart slamming against her chest. It had been so different between them in the kitchen at Brackendale House. Gwyneth hadn’t thought of William as the earl, and she hadn’t noticed his blue eyes or the way his skin looked just after his morning shave. She’d given little heed to the breadth of his shoulders or the warm timbre of his voice. He’d been merely a man with wet stockings and an empty stomach. Now she knew he had the power to turn her life . . . and her heart . . . upside down.
“I don’t suppose I could place a request for one of your strawberry tarts next spring, Mrs. Rutherford?” he was asking. “Seeing you again, I can almost taste them.”
She laughed. “Ah, wee Willie, you were a bold thing even then. Yes, I’ll make you a plateful of tarts—as long as you promise not to eat them all at a go.”
“No, madam, I shall be a good lad, as always.”
She chuckled, a welcome sound in the usually quiet cottage. “Whatever became of those two cheeky dogs that always roved about with you? Long gone, I suppose. You know, Mr. Rutherford and I had a fine dog in Wales.”
“A corgi, I understand.”
“Aye, Griffith was a dear dog. And do you still like to splash about in t’ tarns? Boatin’ and fishin’ and such?”
“I rarely have opportunity these days. I’m very busy. Even crotchety, some say.”
Gwyneth glanced across the room to find him eyeing her, a grin lifting the corner of his mouth. She covered the crumpet batter with a cloth and set it on the hearth. The man might be here another hour or more. She must relax. She simply must.
“And how is your new position suiting you, Gwyneth?” he asked as she sat down again. “Yardley speaks well of your services.”
“I’m grateful, sir. Mum and I have creditors in Wales, and the increased wages will be most helpful.”
“Good. Then you will not object to yet another increase in your income.” He leaned back and propped his feet on the hearth. “I shall explain. My brief illness this autumn necessitated a period of rest, and I was compelled to leave London before the culmination of the holiday season. Such a breach of custom has left my acquaintances in want of my company and my business colleagues feeling the absence of my usual generosity. All this has led me to the decision to host a ball this Christmas Eve. Guests will begin to arrive from London the weekend before. This will mean a good bit of work—organizing the staff, planning meals, scheduling entertainments, and the like. I am assigning the responsibility to you, Gwyneth.”
Her heart faltered again. “Me, sir? But Mr. Yardley is your butler.”
“Yardley is a good man, yet he’s getting on in age. He’s just buried his third wife, and he’s distracted. In fact, I believe his mental faculties are not in top form.”
“Oh, dear.” Gwyneth thought for a moment. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Riddle—”
“My housekeeper has enough work on her hands. I want fresh ideas. I want efficiency. I want loyalty, intelligence, and a keen wit. In short, I want you.”
“I’ve only just come out of the larder into the upper house. In the eyes of the staff, I’m a kitchenmaid, my lord.”
“My name is William.” His blue eyes flickered. “Are you rejecting my proposal, Gwyneth?”
“No, but—”
“Good, then I shall inform Mrs. Riddle in the morning.” He slipped the gold links from his cuffs, tucked them into his pocket, and rolled up his sleeves. “Do you know what I discovered today? My ice skates. I was searching for my old boat—the one I used to take out on the tarns—and I found the skates hanging from a nail in the stables. Not the least bit rusted! Do you skate, Gwyneth?”
“Never.”
“You must learn. It’s good fun.”
She knelt before the fire and began to pour crumpets into the rings on the griddle. Skating? Planning the earl of Beaumontfort’s Christmas ball? Whatever was this man thinking? Although she needed the wages, Gwyneth felt strangely hemmed in by his generosity. Did she want to plan a grand party? Did she even know how? Life had been much simpler when she labored in the larder and took leavings to the villagers by night.
Gwyneth glanced up at the earl, who had slouched down in his chair and closed his eyes. Good heavens. Was he going to sleep? She looked over at Mrs. Rutherford. She snored softly, her knitting forgotten in her lap.
How often had it been just so in their small house in Wales? The family dozing by the fire as Gwyneth boiled up tea or fried sausages. The dog watching with hopeful eyes. Her husband with his coal-blackened hands folded on his chest, always so exhausted. She had loved h
im well, though never with a passion that made her pulse flutter.
Dear God, why does the sight of the grand earl make me feel as though I’ve just run a mile—breathless, dry of mouth, and completely light-headed? I know he’s a good man, she prayed as she turned the crumpets, but he’s beyond me. Lord, why have You put him into my heart in such a powerful manner? You must want me to touch his life in some fashion. Perhaps I’m to lead him to You, Father. Is that it? Please show me!
“You look a hundred miles away,” the earl said in a low voice. “May I know where your thoughts have taken you, Gwyneth? I once shared mine with you.”
She lifted her eyes to find him leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hair softly tousled. He looked nothing like an earl and everything like a dear, comfortable, wonderful man.
“You’re in need of a good jersey,” she said without preamble. “A jersey knitted of sturdy brown wool, with long sleeves and a rolled collar to keep you warm in winter.”
“You were thinking of me, then?”
“Actually, I was praying.” She slid the crumpets onto a clean plate. “I was asking God why he has sent the earl of Beaumontfort into a small cottage with two plain widows who have nothing more to offer him than tea and crumpets.”
“You offer yourselves to me, both of you. I shall never forget the kindness of Mrs. Rutherford. And you . . . I came because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sir . . .” She gathered her courage. “I am not as well educated as you are. I have read few books, and I know little of the wide world. I have no coy speech to entertain you nor quaint stories to charm you. Moreover, I am not an organizer of Christmas balls, my lord.”
“You’ve been feeding half a village on the leavings from my household. And my name is William.”
“I feed them stew made of scraps, and you are the earl of Beaumontfort. How can I call you William?”
“Precisely because I am the earl, and I have commanded you to.”
“Commanded?”
“Asked. It is also my role to employ competent assistants. Do you doubt my ability as an overseer of my properties and entertainments?”
“No, sir. William.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Good, then you’ll take the position.”
Gwyneth handed him the plate of crumpets. “Do you make it a practice always to get exactly what you desire, William? Or am I the sole recipient of your incessant demands?”
“Incessant? I hardly think—”
“‘I should like some crumpets, Gwyneth.’ ‘I’m assigning the position to you, Gwyneth.’ ‘You must learn to skate, Gwyneth.’ ‘I command you to call me William, Gwyneth.’” She dropped into her chair, folded her arms, and stared at him. “And I have not offered myself to you. I offered crumpets to you. That’s all. Crumpets.”
“You amuse me, and that’s a gift whether you intend it or not.”
“A gift is something given from one friend to another. And friends do not issue commands.”
“No? Then perhaps I’ve never had a friend. I’ve commanded people all my life, and they’ve always obeyed. Until now.”
He was still smiling at her, and she noticed a tiny globe of strawberry jam at the corner of his mouth. Leaning across the space between them, she brushed it away with a napkin.
“Love is kind,” she said, softening her voice. “Love does not seek its own way. ’Tis gentle and forbearing. A true friend would lay down his life, never expecting anything in return.”
“As you did for Mrs. Rutherford.”
“As she taught me to do by living out the words of the Holy Bible. By her example, Mum showed me how to be a servant. I’m willing to be your servant, my lord, but unless you learn to stop issuing commands, you shall never have me for a friend.”
“A friend.” He mused for a moment, a knuckle pressed against his lower lip. “My father instructed me never to trust anyone too much. I was taught to depend upon myself, upon my own keen wit, in order to minimize the risks in life. Like a strong fortress, I was to keep my walls high and well guarded. Casual acquaintances are acceptable. But true friends do not fit comfortably into such a picture.”
“Nor does God.” She tore off a piece of crumpet.“How can you allow the perfect and almighty Creator of the universe into your heart if you cannot admit even one silly goose of a human?”
“You are no silly goose.” He studied her, his blue eyes absorbing her face, her hair, her lips. “Gwyneth, do you know why I came to Brackendale this winter?”
“You said ’twas to recuperate from your illness.”
“My physician recommended rest, and I warmed to the notion. I recalled a time when Christmas did not mean balls and grand parties and gold-wrapped gifts. When days were simple and carefree. When my world was . . . different.” He let out a breath. “Life has become complicated. Demanding. On my journey to Cumbria, I dreamed of a small fire, a warm drink, a pleasant chat. Rest. And somehow . . . I have found those things only with you.”
Gwyneth swallowed the bite of crumpet and felt it lodge like an acorn in a drainpipe. With her? What was the man saying? What did he want? Surely he knew she was nothing to him. She could never be his peer, and she would refuse any relationship that smacked of scandal. She took a sip of tea, praying the crumpet would dissolve.
“My businesses are prospering,” he continued, oblivious to the fine sheen that had broken out on his companion’s brow. “To enrich the family’s coffers, I have employed capable managers, esteemed barristers, and astute accountants. My oversight of their activities is helpful, but hardly essential. In fact, I often find myself at loose ends, wanting something . . . and not quite certain what it is.”
Gwyneth swallowed the bite of crumpet. This was a matter she understood perfectly. Perhaps he was the earl, but William was also a man who needed a sympathetic ear. That she could give him.
“You feel as though something is missing in your life,” she said softly. “When I was a girl in Wales, I knew that sentiment well. I ached inside with a loneliness I could not fill with chores, entertainments, acquaintances, or any sort of busyness. My mother had died when I was wee, and I began to believe ’twas the love of a family I lacked. So I sought after a family in the same way you seek to fill your own emptiness. I married a good-hearted coal miner and believed I soon would have children.”
“But you did not?”
“At the time I had no idea that a fever my husband had in his childhood meant he could never father children. When I learned the truth, I was angry, and I felt betrayed. How could he fail to give me what I wanted most? But then Mum put her arms around me, and as I wept bitter tears, she told me that a baby would never complete me. Six babies would never complete me. ’Twas not an emptiness of heart that plagued me, Mum said, but an emptiness of soul. When I welcomed Christ in, I found the most blessed fullness. My anger toward my husband faded, and I discovered joy in the family I’d been given.”
“But then you lost your husband.”
She nodded. “’Twas the end of what little dream I had left, I thought at first. My family was gone.” She gave a little smile. “And what earthly future could I have? Who would ever marry a penniless widow past the age of thirty? No man in his right mind, I would think. So, when Mum told me she was returning to England, I knew I wanted to go with her. She is my family now— more than family enough to keep me content. And the love of Christ fills my soul. I need nothing more, William.”
Glancing at him, she hoped he believed her. What she had told him was true—all of it. Christ did fill her, and she had been content. Had been until this long-legged man with a deep voice and blue eyes had walked into the kitchen in need of food, drink, and . . . and things she ached to give. A listening ear. Warm arms to hold him. A soft cheek against his neck. Gentle words to comfort and strengthen him.
What was wrong with her that she wanted more? God had blessed her with salvation. He had given her home and family. Gifts more precious than diamonds and gold.
“Your fait
h is all you need?” William asked. “Perhaps that’s my failure. I am a Christian, Gwyneth, but I have little time for matters of religion.”
“Then your faith must be shallow.”
“Shallow?” He looked offended. “I don’t think so. I have quite a deep belief in God.”
“My lord, have you ever truly loved someone?” She searched his face and clearly read the answer. “I didn’t think so. True love demands time. If I love someone—as I love Mrs. Rutherford, for example—I want to spend time with her. I want to know her better day by day. We enjoy our hours together and, as a result, our devotion to each other grows. Were I to tell you that I have little time for matters of friendship with Mrs. Rutherford, you would surmise that I do not truly know her well, nor do I love her as I claim.”
He mused, his focus on the fire. “You speak frankly with me, Gwyneth.”
“Aye. ’Tis the only way I know to speak.”
“Then I shall be honest with you.” Leaning forward, he met her eyes. “I do not believe you are perfectly content. I believe your faith sustains you and fulfills you, but I also discern a longing you cannot disguise. I saw it that night in the kitchen when I asked you to stay and take tea with me. You’re lonely.”
Gwyneth clasped her hands together, praying for divine assistance. How could she admit what he said was true? She wanted to be completely satisfied in Christ. Honestly she did.
“Do you deny it?” he asked.
She glanced at Mrs. Rutherford, who was snoring softly, her knitting needles askew on her lap. What good would it do Gwyneth to acknowledge her true feelings to the man? Why did he even want to know? What on earth had led her into this dreadful circumstance?
“No,” she said, “I cannot deny I am lonely at times. But I’ve come to understand that I can choose to wallow in unhappiness or seek after the joy in life. I choose joy.”
He smiled. “Which is the very reason your faith is real and not a contrivance. Will you do something for me, Gwyneth? When you are lonely, will you feel free to seek me out and speak with me? I should like to . . . to listen to you.”
She moistened her lips, trying to think how to respond. Of course she couldn’t go traipsing up to the earl of Beaumontfort every time she felt a little low. He was not her close acquaintance. He could not be her confidant.
A Victorian Christmas Page 17