3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England

by Michelle Griep

  “You sound just like Father. But not to worry, for I shall return by then. Father insisted, and Will said he’d figure out a way to explain it to his uncle.”

  “Hmm.” Effie ran the brush through the rest of her hair, then set it down and picked up a few pins. “Well, at least you’re done with the pretend bride business, eh?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Mina?”

  “Sort of,” she mumbled.

  “How can ye be a ‘sort of’ bride?” Effie tugged a hank of hair into place and shoved in a pin. “What has your father to say about that?”

  Guilt scraped her soul every bit as much as the jab of Effie’s next hairpin. Neither she nor Will had mentioned anything about the charade to Father. She couldn’t imagine what he’d say. It had been hard enough trying to convince Miss Whymsy to go along with the sham-marriage story until Will had a chance to speak with his uncle. Once the gravity of Uncle Barlow’s situation had been explained—plus the fact that Will had asked her father for permission to court her, moving them in the general direction of matrimony—Miss Whymsy had grudgingly agreed. The old lady had vowed, however, that she’d not lie outright. And neither would Mina.

  She sat taller and tilted her head, giving Effie a better reach to finish pinning up her hair. “William promised he’d tell his uncle the truth of things soon after we arrive … and he asked my father last Saturday if he might court me. So maybe, perhaps, I might be a real bride in the near future.”

  “Oh, love! How wonderful.”

  It was. She kept telling herself that. But she couldn’t stop the frown weighting her brow.

  Effie stooped, staring face-to-face in the mirror with her. “Why do ye look as if it’s not so wonderful?”

  A sigh to rip a hole in the universe gushed out of her. Would voicing her doubts make them real? Oh, God, please no. But the determined gleam in Effie’s brown eyes would not be denied.

  “I don’t know if it’s real, Effie. Does William truly care for me, or is this just an act to save his uncle? Not that I mind saving his uncle, but … oh, I don’t know. I suppose I feel like a character in a book, not knowing how the plot will twist—and am unable to flip to the last page to find out.”

  Effie shook her head. “But your story is already written, and it does have a happy ending. Are we not promised heaven when we die?”

  “It’s not the dying part that concerns me. It’s the in-between now and then.”

  “Ahh, love … if we knew how things would turn out, then there’d be no need for faith, aye? My mother—God rest her—always told me to think of eternity, then live backward from that. Such a view has a way o’ whittlin’ down our current troubles to a size we can crumple up into a ball and toss aside.”

  The words sank in deep, convicting and healing. Her friend was right. What had become of her faith? Oh, Lord, forgive me.

  Reaching up, she patted Effie’s arm. “Thank you for the reminder. What would I do without you?”

  “Well, for one, you might have more hair on yer head.” With a purse of her lips, Effie straightened and finished with the last of her pins. “There. What do ye think?”

  Tipping her head, she narrowed her eyes and studied every angle. Not one bit of shorter hair remained uncovered. “You are a miracle worker.”

  “Not really, but I happen to know the Giver of all miracles, and ye can bet I’ll be on my knees every mornin’ praying for ye while ye’re gone.”

  “Thank you. I have a feeling I’ll be needing a miracle or two, especially if I’m going to get this watch fob finished before I leave. That’s only a little over a week and a half, and it’s not like I can devote all my time to such a project.”

  “Knowing yer nimble fingers, ye’ll have it done in a trice.” Effie swiped up the old coin she’d given her weeks ago from where it sat on the vanity. She held the bit of gold out on an open palm. “And for heaven’s sake, tuck this coin into yer pocket and carry it with ye at all times. Ye just might need to give someone a second chance at that estate, especially if Mr. Barlow’s cousins are to be there as well.”

  Indeed. She wrapped her fingers around the coin. Taking courage from her friend’s words of faith and the piece of gold in her hand, she did feel ready for her upcoming adventure. Mostly.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The light snowfall, which had feathered his schoolroom windows on the Thursday, still lingered in the air, and was falling white.

  Our Mutual Friend

  Outside the carriage window, snowflakes floated. Some seemed to hang suspended. Others languished to the ground. Mina huffed on the glass, then rubbed away the condensation for a clearer view. She’d never been to Essex, nor witnessed such a magical sight. The road to Uncle Barlow’s estate wound through a wooded countryside, slowly being tucked in beneath a light counterpane of white.

  Would this be the best Christmas ever?

  Will rode on horseback, trotting ahead of the carriage, his words of a fortnight ago yet echoed in her mind as she settled back against the seat. Judging by the fairyland outside, his “best Christmas” was off to a good start.

  She slipped a sideways glance at Miss Whymsy, who peered out the window on her side of the carriage. The older lady seemed as mesmerized by the wonderland outside as she.

  “God’s artistry never ceases to amaze me.” Her friend turned from the window. “Though my bones don’t appreciate the chill, I can’t help but revel in the beauty. Oh, how I’ve missed this.”

  “You’ve been to Essex?”

  A curious smile lifted Miss Whymsy’s lips, as if she savored the aftertaste of a treasured secret. “I served in a country home not far from here. A bit more north though, I should think. Ahh, but those were happy memories.”

  Yet as the carriage rolled along, the woman’s smile faded to a shadow.

  Mina patted her friend’s leg, hoping to impart some kind of comfort. “Pardon my noticing, but you don’t seem happy, thinking of those times.”

  “I suppose I should have said bittersweet.” The blue green in Miss Whymsy’s eyes deepened to a shade of hopeful despair, a contradiction that raised hundreds of questions.

  And Mina couldn’t keep from letting one slip out. “In what respect? That is, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

  “Not at all, for therein does Mr. Hargrave yet live.”

  The carriage wheels dipped into a rut, giving her a good excuse for the sudden gasp and grasp of the seat. Had Miss Whymsy a past lover?

  “Mr. Hargrave?” Mina rolled the name out like an invitation, hoping the woman would share more. “I’ve never heard you make mention of him.”

  “There’s never been an occasion, I suppose, until now. Believe it or not, I was young once, like you, and thoroughly taken with a Mr. Roger Hargrave—not unlike your affection for the dashing Mr. Barlow.”

  Mina shifted on the seat, stifling the urge to fan her face though the air was chill. By faith! Why could she never master the flush that always accompanied the mention of Will?

  “But as I was saying,” Miss Whymsy continued, “Roger Hargrave was the most dashing gentleman I’d ever met. So handsome. So upstanding. He was the younger brother of the earl in whose home I served.”

  The older lady leaned closer, eyes twinkling, her trademark lavender scent wafting like summer on this wintry day. “We were engaged to be married.”

  This time her jaw did drop. “You were married?”

  “No. You see …” For a moment, Miss Whymsy’s gaze drifted back to the window, but Mina got the distinct impression the older lady didn’t see the snow-laced trees or wintry landscape. She likely wandered in a far-off land of memory—until the woman drew in a deep breath and once again faced her. “My Roger was a military man, called off for one last stint in the Indies where he succumbed to a fever … a week before he was to return.”

  “Oh!” Mina recoiled, her hat bumping against the back of the carriage. “How dreadful.”

  “It was, but don’t fret on my accoun
t.” Miss Whymsy lifted her chin, her breath coming out in little white puffs. “Though Roger’s been gone these thirty years, I have learned to cherish the pain of his absence.”

  “Cherish pain?” She shook her head, but even that didn’t put any order to the curious thought. “I don’t understand.”

  “You see, my dear, real joy is not found in the best moments of life, but in trusting that God is making the best of every moment … even those as dreadful as death.”

  What an odd sentiment. Mina sank deeper into the seat cushion, her thoughts taking a dive into Miss Whymsy’s logic. How could it possibly have been the best for her to lose her mother at only seven years of age? Was it best that she’d wept for years on end and her father grieved alone every night? Or maybe—perhaps—had she been so caught up in the losing that she’d given no thought to the trusting part of the equation?

  “I can see you’re puzzled. Let me try to explain it a bit better.” The governess inside Miss Whymsy emerged in the straightening of her shoulders. “I believe that when God permits pain, it is for the purpose of allowing something new to be born inside of us. I am not the same person I would be had Roger lived—and I trust my clever Creator that I am the better for it.”

  “So you’re saying,” Mina thought aloud, “that if my mother had lived, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.”

  “Exactly. Oh, don’t get me wrong, my dear.” Miss Whymsy reached over and squeezed her hand. “I am in no way trying to negate how awful it was for you to experience the loss of your mother. I am simply saying that one must cherish all moments in life, happy or sad, for when you are older, memories are ofttimes all you have left.”

  Mina’s heart broke, especially thinking of Miss Whymsy sitting by herself in front of the tiny hearth in her chamber, a tea tray set for one on the small table beside her, alone with naught but her memories. “Is it so very awful, living alone?”

  “La!” the old lady chuckled, the ruffled edge of her bonnet bobbing with the movement. “God’s children are never truly alone—especially in a world filled with books. I daresay you know that, hmm?”

  They fell silent then and remained so until the carriage slowed. The horses stopped in front of a three-story, white-stone building, looking as merry as the snowflakes that danced about it. Vines wrapped brown arms around the structure in a loving embrace, and were it spring, no doubt green leaves would offer a stunning show against the backdrop. As her gaze landed on two bay windows curving out on either side of the front door, her smile returned in full force. What a perfect place to curl up with a book.

  She turned to Miss Whymsy and rested her hand on the lady’s arm. “Thank you for coming along with me. I hope you shall enjoy your stay here.”

  “I am sure—”

  Just then the carriage door flung wide, and instead of the expected footman offering a hand, Uncle Barlow’s grey-tufted head poked into the carriage. “I’ve been waiting for you—oh? What’s this?” His eyes widened as his gaze landed on Miss Whymsy. “Two lovely ladies? How grand! M’ladies, my castle awaits.” He backed out and held the door wide.

  “Actually, my dear”—Miss Whymsy quirked a brow toward her—“I have a feeling I shall enjoy my visit here very much.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There is no playing fast and loose with the truth, in any game, without growing the worse for it.

  Little Dorrit

  Will handed over his horse’s lead to a stable boy, then patted the mount on the neck. The ride from Bishop’s Stortford to Uncle’s estate had been refreshing, reminding him how much he missed the sweetness of air unsullied by coal smoke and humanity.

  “Mind you rub this fellow down good and have his left foreleg checked. He seemed to be favoring it.”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy dipped his head.

  Wheeling about, Will strode to the front door of Uncle Barlow’s country home, his footsteps muffled by the thin layer of snow. Ahead, Uncle held out both arms, Mina’s gloved hand perched on one, and Miss Whymsy’s curled around the other. Uncle threw back his head, his laughter jolly in the greyness of the late afternoon.

  Following their heels, Will entered the large foyer, already decorated for Christmas, and breathed in the scent of fresh greenery, beeswax candles, and hundreds of memories. Ahead rose the staircase where he and Percy used to race down the banisters on Christmas morn—until the year Percy had fallen and his nursemaid had put a stop to that. To his left, the door to the sitting room. How many summer holidays had he hidden behind the settee to avoid having to ride with his cousin? For Percy had ever been the worst horseman on the face of the planet. All walk and no gallop.

  Shoving aside the memories, he caught up to Mina and helped her out of her wraps. Uncle Barlow assisted Miss Whymsy, and they loaded down a servant with cloaks, hats, and mufflers.

  “Oh, my!” Mina breathed out as her wide-eyed gaze drifted from the holly-and-ivy garland along the stairway to a bowl of clove-studded oranges on a nearby table. “You’ve decorated early for Christmas.”

  Uncle Barlow gathered one of her hands in both of his, patting the top of it. “I thought that since we’d not be here for the actual holiday, why not decorate now? It was so thoughtful of you, my dear, to have invited us all to your father’s Christmas Eve gala at the Golden Egg. I own I’ve never been there, yet William tells me the oyster stew is not to be missed. And I cannot think of a more perfect venue or time in which to announce who my heir will be.”

  “Th–thank you,” Mina stammered. As soon as Uncle released her hand and Miss Whymsy claimed his attention, she shot Will a narrow-eyed glance and a whisper. “What did you—?”

  “Sorry,” he whispered back, adding a sheepish smile that he hoped was convincing. “It was the only way I could think of for us to leave here by Christmas.”

  Her brows pulled together. “But—”

  Whatever rejoinder she intended died on her lips as Alice and Percy descended the stairway. Will stifled a smirk. Saved by his cousins. That was a first.

  “Well.” Percy sniffed as he joined Will’s side. “I see you’ve arrived.”

  In spite of his cousin’s rancor, he couldn’t help but smile. Some things never changed. In an odd sort of way, Percy’s predictability was at least familiar, like donning a ratty woolen jumper, all scratchy and smelling of mothballs, yet altogether a necessity to the feeling of having arrived home.

  “Good afternoon to you too, Percy. Alice.” He nodded in greeting.

  Alice bypassed him and closed in on Mina. “Good afternoon, Mina. I hope your journey wasn’t too taxing, though by the looks of you, it likely was. I see you’ve brought along your mother.”

  Pink flushed Mina’s cheeks. “Oh, but this is not my mother. This is one of my dearest friends, Miss Whymsy. Miss Whymsy, please meet Alice Barlow, wife of Percival Barlow, Will’s cousins.”

  The older lady bowed her head. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Barlow, Mr. Barlow.”

  “A friend, you say?” Alice’s green eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze over Miss Whymsy—and apparently found her lacking, judging by the perfect pout on her lips. She whirled back to Mina. “You brought along an uninvited guest? How bold. One might almost get the impression you felt the need for a chaperone.”

  An alarm gonged inside Will’s head. If Alice continued that line of reasoning, she might draw a very revealing picture. He opened his mouth—

  But Uncle Barlow charged ahead, collecting Miss Whymsy’s hand and placing it on his arm. “I assure you, Alice, had I known Mina was acquainted with such a delightful lady, I would have invited her straightaway myself. Miss Whymsy, allow me to escort you to the sitting room, where you can wait for a chamber to be readied.”

  At her consent, they both disappeared out of the foyer.

  Percy sidled closer to Will. “A very clever scheme, Cousin.”

  Ignoring the man, Will swept out his hand toward Mina. Sometimes the best defense was to change the subject. “Mina? How about I show you the house?”<
br />
  She stepped to his side.

  But Percy blocked their passage. “It won’t work, you know.”

  Afternoon light glinted off Percy’s spectacles, drilling a beam into his eyes, and he blinked. Clearly there’d be no putting off the man. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Bringing the old lady to distract Uncle. You think she can make up for your dodgy past?”

  Beside him, Mina tensed. Blast his cousin for always planting doubt in her mind. “No, I do not,” he said through clenched teeth. “But if Uncle enjoys Miss Whymsy’s company, why begrudge him a little happiness at Christmas?”

  “There is something not right about this.” Alice tapped a finger against her lips. “Something I intend to find out.”

  Mina huddled closer to his side, and he stretched out his arm, drawing her near.

  And at that moment, Uncle Barlow strolled out of the sitting room, chuckling. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “This shall be the merriest of Christmases. I feel it in my bones.” He stopped in front of the group and nodded to Will. “Why don’t you see Mina up to the blue room and you can both refresh from your travels. We’ll meet for dinner at seven o’clock.”

  Will waited for further instruction, but Uncle Barlow turned, apparently dismissing them.

  “And to what room shall my things be delivered?” he asked.

  Without turning back, Uncle waggled his fingers in the air. “Why, the blue room of course.”

  Percy and Alice gave him a queer look—but their confusion was nothing compared to the apprehension in Mina’s large eyes as she blinked up at him.

  He tugged his collar, fighting for air. Of course he’d be expected to share a bedchamber with his wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Death doesn’t change us more than life.

  The Old Curiosity Shop