As his stride slowed, she laid her head on his shoulder. How lovely to have a small tradition shared between them. The thought of baking crumpets for this man filled her with tenderness and longing. And those powerful emotions led her to the realization that all too soon he would be gone again.
“Why didn’t you come to Brackendale last spring?” she asked.
“Duty, of course. But I shall never miss another spring in Cumbria,” he vowed. “As long as I may pick strawberries with you.”
“Oh, William. Really, I cannot.” But even as she said the words, she ached for his promise to come true.
“And catch fish with you in summer,” he went on. “And roast chestnuts with you in the autumn.”
“And skate on the tarns in winter?”
“As long as it’s with you.” He was hardly moving forward now, as the stream narrowed and the sky darkened toward nightfall. “Gwyn, say you’ll return to the House. I need you.”
He stopped beneath the arching bare branches of an old oak tree. How could she turn him away? Yet, where could this growing intimacy between them lead? Not long after the new year began, he would go away to London. She would have no Christmas ball to plan and no position in the kitchen. Mrs. Riddle’s wrath would burn unhindered. And loneliness would wrap around Gwyneth’s heart once more.
But had she not told this man it was her purpose to serve? He stood here in the twilight pleading with her to help him. He needed her for reasons she could not fully understand. And she must serve.
“I shall return,” she said.
He let out a breath. “And I shall be your guardian. You have nothing to fear.”
Nothing but the loss of your smile, she thought. The absence of your laughter. The disappearance of the joy and warmth and fun you have brought into my life.
“I hope Mrs. Rutherford hasn’t drifted off to sleep without her tea,” William said as he took Gwyneth by the shoulders and turned her away from him. To her surprise she realized she was facing her own little cottage, its thatched roof wearing a cap of snow. “This was the path I used to take as a boy. Mrs. Rutherford would spy me splashing through this very beck, and she’d invite me to her cottage for tarts.”
Gwyneth wanted to tell him a hundred things—that she was afraid to lose him, that this past hour had been the most enchanting of her life, that she would pick strawberries at his side until not one remained on the hillside, that tears of joy and blessing filled her to overflowing. But she swallowed her words and climbed onto the snowy bank.
“Good night, Gwyn,” he said, lifting a hand in farewell.
She tried to speak, but nothing would come. As she turned toward the house, she saw him skate into the darkness.
“I plan to put sugarplum trees down the center of every table,” Gwyneth said, reading from her long checklist. The head cook peered over her shoulder as they stood beside the kitchen fireplace. “That means we shall need to make hundreds of sugarplums. Have we currants and figs?”
“Currants, yes. Figs, no.”
“But how can we have sugarplums without figs?” Gwyneth lowered the list and studied the elderly woman whose olive green eyes peered at her from a wreath of wrinkles. “Oh, Cook, we’ve sixty people coming for the Christmas ball.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take a carriage to t’ shops in Bowness on Windermere.” Cook gave a shrug. “You’ve got to have figs.”
“Figs and almonds for the sugarplums, ribbon for the table, gold paper for the name cards, and a hundred other things. But how can I leave Mrs. Rutherford? She was not feeling at all well when I arrived home last night.”
“Had you not been out frolicking until the wee hours,” Mrs. Riddle intoned as she approached them from the stairwell, “you would have been available to help the dear woman.” She held up the skates Gwyneth had worn the evening before. “These straps are wet. Sukey Ironmonger told me you returned the skates to the House this morning. Perhaps they were in use at the same time as these?”
When the housekeeper lifted the earl’s skates, Gwyneth knew her flaming cheeks gave away the truth at once. Carefully folding her list, she lifted up a prayer for wisdom and charity. Though she would like nothing better than to lash out at the thin-lipped woman, she was reminded of her precarious position in the House.
“I fear my mother-in-law may have contracted the same influenza that felled Sukey’s family,” Gwyneth said. “I shall be attentive to her, of course.”
“As well you should. She graciously took you in when you had no family and no home of your own. But then, perhaps you wormed your way into her good graces, just as you have done with others here at Brackendale Manor.”
“Madam, I have never been deceitful in my dealings with anyone.”
“You are aware, Gwyneth Rutherford, that it is against the rules of the House for fraternization to occur between employee and employer.” The housekeeper’s pursed lips hardly moved as she spoke. “An infraction is grounds for immediate dismissal.”
“Yes, madam. Of course.”
“Oh, do let her be, Riddle,” Cook spoke up. “If t’ earl chooses to take Gwynnie out for a bit of a skate, why should it trouble you? She’s a good girl, that she is—takin’ t’ leavin’s into t’ village of an evenin’, goin’ to church every time t’ doors open up, workin’ her fingers down to t’ nubs on this Christmas ball. You know she came all t’ way from Wales to look after old Mrs. Rutherford, and not t’ other way round. She left her family and country behind her, and she’s always been a fine, hard worker. T’ whole village will assure you that Gwynnie’s a good girl. You leave her be, Riddle, or you’ll have me to answer to.”
Mrs. Riddle stared down her nose at the little cook. “Watch your tongue, Cook, lest you speak out of turn and jeopardize your position.”
“I’ve been workin’ at t’ House nearly sixty years, Riddle, and I’m not afraid of t’ likes of you.”
“No? Though I came here after you, it was I who rose through the ranks to the superior position. As housekeeper, I am well within my rights to discipline you for insubordination.”
“I should think plannin’ all my menus and pokin’ your pointed nose into my vegetable storage bins and castin’ fear into my poor wee kitchenmaids would keep you busy enough, Riddle. I’m not afraid of you, and I never will be. With Gwynnie, here, I’ve a chance to show what I know about good cookin’ for t’ Christmas ball. She’s let me plan my own menu for once. We’re havin’ ham, boiled fowls, tongue, chicken pie, roast pheasant, galantine of veal, and boar’s head. We’re havin’ fruited jellies, prawns, raspberry cream, and meringues. We’re havin’ lobster salad, charlotte russe, and mayonnaise of fowl. And we’re decoratin’ t’ tables with sugarplum trees. Now how do you like that, Mrs. Fiddle-Faddle?”
The housekeeper lifted her chin and pressed her lips into a tight white line. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here, Cook,” she said. “As for you, Gwyneth Rutherford, a fortnight beyond the new year, you will see your last of the inside of Brackendale Manor. Once the earl leaves for London, you and your wicked attempts to woo his good favor will be quickly forgotten. Your low, immoral behaviors will be revealed to all within this House and the village. And you will find yourself cast out into the winter winds to straggle back to Wales where you belong. Do I make myself quite clear?”
“Yes, madam, that you do.”
Without another word, the housekeeper turned on her heel and marched back up the staircase. Cook thumbed her nose at the retreating shadow as the kitchenmaids emerged from hiding places to which they’d fled at the sight of the formidable woman.
“Good riddance, Fiddle-Faddle,” the cook said with a snort. “Don’t let her trouble you, Gwynnie. She’s just talkin’.”
“She means what she says.” Gwyneth shut her eyes and leaned against the long oak worktable. “Oh, Cook, ’tis a hopeless situation, no matter how I choose. I tried to step away from the Christmas ball, but the earl refused my resignation. And yet, every day that I remain, Mrs.
Riddle grows more angry.”
“Jealous, don’t you mean?” Cook took the list from Gwyneth’s pocket and spread it on the table. “She knows she’s almost done for. She and Yardley and I—we were all hired on by t’ present earl’s father when he was but a very young man. ’Twill not be long before Sir William finds himself a bride and she sets about cleanin’ t’ House of its cobwebs, if you know what I mean. I’d put my wager on you for t’ housekeeper’s position. T’ earl likes you, and you’ve done good work for him. Don’t look so surprised. Sukey will fill my place, and one of t’ younger men will take on the butler’s duties. That’s t’ way ’tis.”
Gwyneth took the old woman’s hand. “The earl is a good man. He will not set any of you out of the House without seeing to your needs.”
“I hope you’re right. But we don’t know him well, for he doesn’t come regularly to t’ House.”
Gwyneth gave the woman’s hand a squeeze. He would come to Brackendale in springtime, in summer, in autumn, and in winter, he had promised her. But that was last night on the frozen tarn when they were nothing more than a man and a woman alone together on a chilly evening. Would Gwyneth be head housekeeper one day? Was that what William planned for her?
Oh, Lord, I’m so confused! I cannot take Mrs. Riddle’s place. But if I don’t hold some position here at the House, Mum and I will live in fear of our lives. The debt on the coal mine grows in spite of my payments, and You know how I labor for every tuppence I earn here at the House. Yet how can I recommend myself to the earl without being accused of improper behavior? Already the skating has been brought to light. Nothing will escape the prying eyes—
“You look as if you’re ready to wilt right onto t’ floor, Gwynnie,” Cook said. “Come now, what’s this about crackers here on t’ list?”
“Crackers?” Gwyneth focused again on her Christmas plans. “Oh, yes, Mr. Yardley told me about them. They’re a sort of toy. You pull them on each end, and when they pop, small toys fall out. I understand that Queen Victoria adores them.”
“Hmph. You’d better hurry out to t’ stables and arrange for a carriage. You won’t find crackers for sale in our little village. ’Twill be a journey to Bowness for you, my dear.”
“James!” The earl of Beaumontfort spotted one of his grooms at the end of the stables. “Have you been out? What is the condition of the roads?”
“Good afternoon, my lord.” The man removed his hat and gave a bow. “T’ main thoroughfares are traveled enough to be passable, sir. But t’ lanes and byways are treacherous.”
William studied the steel gray skies. “I’d say we’re in for another snow.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“We’ve had more snow this year than normal, haven’t we, James?”
“Yes, my lord.”
As usual, no one on the earl’s staff gave more than a deferential answer to his inquiries. There would be no conversation about the coming storm, no musings as to its impact on the activities surrounding the manor, no queries as to the master’s plans for the evening. Nothing. It wasn’t proper.
William studied the young groom, whose nervous twisting of his gloves revealed his eagerness to be off. Rarely before had the earl wished for conversation with his staff—or with anyone, for that matter. Too busy, of course. Important matters to attend to. Business to be transacted. Perhaps if he returned to London, his hours would fill quickly and there would be no time for loneliness and longing. No desire for camaraderie, friendship . . . or love.
“James,” he said suddenly, “have you a family? a wife, perhaps? children?”
The man’s eyes narrowed in wariness. “Yes, my lord.”
“A wife then?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How many children?”
“Three, sir.”
“And . . . ah . . . do they play in the snow? Your children?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I see. Very good, James. Do take care of them.”
“Yes, my lord. I will, sir.” He gave another little bow.
William let out a breath. “I was considering a ride, but perhaps that would not be prudent. What do you think, James? Should I ride, and if so, which of my horses do you find the most surefooted? And can you tell me your opinion of the stables, James? Do you think them warm enough, or should I consider a stronger door?”
The groom glanced over the earl’s shoulder as if he wished he could run for cover from this unexpected battery of questions. “Ridin’, sir, would be . . .” His eyes brightened. “I say, there’s Gwyneth Rutherford. What’s she doin’ out here in t’ stables?” Catching himself, he addressed the earl again. “Ridin’, sir, would be ill advised under t’ circumstances.”
William turned to find Gwyneth marching purposefully down the long row of stalls. Spotting him, she gave a silent gasp, pulled up short, and clutched her shawl against her throat. With an unconscious attempt to smooth her hair, she continued on more slowly.
“My lord.” She gave the earl a curtsy. Her technique had improved, he noted wryly. “James.”
“Mrs. Rutherford,” the men replied as one.
“My lord, I must request permission to take a carriage to Bowness on Windermere,” she said, her focus on the earl. “We need figs and ribbon and crackers and all manner of items for the Christmas ball. Really, I must go straightaway. You cannot imagine the kerfuffle I’ll be in if we don’t have figs for the sugarplum trees.”
As James headed into one of the stalls, a tickle of amusement lifted the corner of the earl’s mouth. “Sugarplum trees?”
“I must put something down the middle of the tables, of course—for decoration. Cook tells me ’tis always done. We won’t have fresh fruit at this time of year, and I had hoped for something festive.” Her brown eyes lit up. “Sugarplums! I loved them as a child, didn’t you? We used to have them at dinner on Christmas Day, so delicious I could hardly wait.”
“Visions of sugarplums danced in your head?”
“Exactly!” She laughed and reached out to touch his hand. “Please, you must let me take a carriage. If possible, I shall be away only this one night. Mum isn’t well, you see, and I dare not leave her alone for long.”
“Not well?”
“I fear she may have the influenza.”
“I shall take you to Bowness myself,” he announced. “James, ready a carriage.”
“No!” Her cry rang through the stables. Grabbing his sleeve, she pulled him closer and stood on tiptoe to whisper into his ear. “I cannot go away with you, William! Think of it, please, and reconsider your order at once.”
“You would rather go with James?” he murmured back, rather enjoying the moment of intimate tête-à-tête.
“James is a groom. I can go with him, of course. But not with you!” Her voice trembled a little. “Please, do not insist upon this, William. I beg you.”
He considered for a moment. It would be most enchanting to spend an entire afternoon in the presence of the witty and straightforward Gwyneth Rutherford. He could take her to dinner at some little inn near the lake. They might stroll the shops together the following morning. Bowness was a lovely town, and he would buy Gwyneth anything she desired.
But the look in her eyes reminded him once again that her commitment to her faith took precedence over all else. She would not raise eyebrows with imprudent behavior. Her duty came before any sort of frivolity. She was a servant, demonstrating her commitment to Christ in word and deed. And it was this very quality that drew him to her.
Dear God, he prayed, awkward at the unfamiliar step into the world of the invisible. Please grant me wisdom. Teach me to walk with You as Gwyneth does.
“How may I serve you best?” he said, taking her hand and looking into her brown eyes. And then he knew. “James, will the carriage be safe enough along the main road to Bowness?”
“Yes, my lord,” the groom replied, emerging from the stall.
“Take Mrs. Rutherford’s list, then, and purchase the goods
she requires.” He handed over the sheet of paper she had brought. “But first, see that she is escorted safely home this afternoon. Her mother-in-law is ill.”
Giving Gwyneth the most formal of bows, William forced himself to turn and walk away. He heard a breath of relief escape her lips, and he knew his prayer had been answered. Though it was not the answer he liked nor the path he would have chosen, he understood that to serve God and to truly honor and respect this woman, he must give her up.
CHAPTER FOUR
“However do you know so much about all these people?” Gwyneth sat beside her mother-in-law in their little cottage and sorted through the responses to the earl’s Christmas invitations. The room was warm and cozy this night with the women’s chairs pushed close to the fire and the crackle of the flames to cheer them. Their wooden floor had been swept clean, their dinner dishes washed and put away, and their shutters latched against the winter wind.
Gwyneth held up a missive inscribed with grand flourishes of black ink. “Now, tell me about this gentleman, Donald Maxwell. Who is he?”
The old woman’s knitting needles clicked as the length of brown wool on her lap wove into a complex pattern of cables and fisherman’s knots. “Donald Maxwell is a baron of very little means and very great ambitions,” she replied. “He’s a distant cousin to t’ earl, but you’d think he was king by t’ airs he puts on.”
The effort of conversation sent her into a fit of coughing that made Gwyneth’s heart ache. “Here’s a clean hanky, Mum. Shall I pour you another cup of tea?”
“Thank you kindly, Gwynnie. Oh, me, I do hope I’m past this before Christmas.” Setting her knitting aside, she accepted the cup with both hands. “Does it seem cold in t’ house to you, my dear? I can’t seem to stay warm.”
“I’ll fetch more coal.” On her feet at once, Gwyneth threw her shawl over her shoulders and hurried outside. As she scooped a hod full of coal from the bin outside their cottage, she scanned the narrow road to the village. Empty, of course. The earl had not come to visit the two women again, nor had he spoken more than a word of greeting to Gwyneth at the House each morning. She remembered well the evening she had made him crumpets before the fire. And she recalled their breathtaking skate across the lake and down the beck.
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