Outside, jingle bells festooning a horse tinkle like laughter. I rush to the window, where afternoon sunshine beams down on an approaching coach. This time I do bounce. Such joy is simply not meant to be contained. Because this year I am celebrating Christmas with holly and laughter and a large stuffed goose.
“Ladies.” I whirl from the glass and clap my hands. Five faces turn my way. “I have a grand surprise I’ve been waiting to share with you. Today, we not only celebrate the birth of our blessed Lord, but also my upcoming marriage. I am to be wed in the new year, and I wanted you to be the first to know.”
Cheers and blessings ring out. My, how drastically things can change in little more than a week. Had I not seen firsthand how beauty can rise from ashes, I’d never have believed it.
But this is no time to wax philosophic. The love of my life waits outside. I dash to the door, yet before I yank it open, I rein in the women with another clap. “And now, my dear friends, I should very much like to introduce you to …”
The words slip off my tongue as I stare into the green eyes of a stranger.
It is a man in a red woolen muffler. A frosty moustache clings to his upper lip, or maybe it’s a shadow, so thin is the line. The December air has nipped his cheeks and nose to a hearty ruddiness, all splotchy and mottled, as if he’s travelled quite a distance this day. There is something vaguely familiar about the dimple on his chin, but though I try, I cannot place him.
“Merry Christmas, madam.” He dips his head. “Are you Mrs. White?”
“I am.”
“Thank God!” He blows out a puff of air that mists into a tiny white cloud. “I’ve had quite the time tracking you from London to Nottingham. A Mr. Barlow of Smudge and Gruber contacted me. I believe you are familiar with him?”
“Yes.” I scramble to figure out how and why this man is related to my lawyer and his clerk. “Mr. Barlow is—”
“Clarence?” Behind me, Hester’s voice fairly shrieks. “Is that you, my boy?”
“Mother.” The man angles past me and rushes into the room, where Hester is already halfway to the door. He gathers the old woman into his arms and swings her around. Both laugh, though Hester’s gaiety warbles with happy tears.
The big man gently sets her down yet does not release his hold of her. He gazes into her blind eyes, and the adoration on his face squeezes my chest.
“Oh, Mother, I thought I’d lost you. That you were …” He presses his lips tight, visibly trying to regain his composure. It is an intimate moment, one I should turn away from, yet the display of love is so compelling, I cannot.
Though his mother cannot see his response, she clearly hears the emotion in his voice. Hester reaches up and lovingly places her hand on her son’s cheek, as if he is the most precious of all God’s creations. “Don’t fret about me, boy. Yer old mother comes from hardy stock. But whatever are ye doin’ here?”
Clarence covers her hand with his and leans into her touch, nuzzling against it. “I’ve come to take you home, Mother. My home. And a grand home it is. I’ve made quite a name for myself in America.” Grief etches lines deep on his brow, and the moustache on his lip quivers. “Had I known you were yet alive, I’d have come sooner.”
“Oh, Clarence, I din’t want to be a millstone ‘round your neck.”
“You’re not a millstone, Mother. You are a gem. A brilliant, shining gem.” He crushes her to his chest and plants a kiss atop her head.
I suck in a shaky breath, as do the other women, for such is the holiness of the moment. A Son was given on Christmas Day, and now one is returned. I lift my gaze to the rafters.
How kind You are, God.
I cannot help but smile, and though I hate to interrupt the magical scene, the goose and Edmund will soon be here. I nod to Clarence and sweep out my hand. “Please, won’t you join your mother and us for dinner? There is always room for more here at the Old Lace Shop.”
Clarence pulls away from Hester and doffs his hat, flourishing it toward me with a bow. “Thank you. I shall.”
Pounding rattles the door, and my grin grows. Edmund! At last. And it sounds as if he’s as eager to see me as I am to finally be at his side.
I swing the door wide and a small body plows into me. An arm wraps around my waist. The other clings to a crutch. Girlish giggles muffle into my skirt.
Flora? What on earth?
My jaw drops, and I stare past the girl to where Edmund strides away from paying the jarvey. When his gaze meets mine, my breath catches. I will never tire of the barefaced adoration blazing in those blue-grey eyes.
He stops in front of me, sandwiching Flora between us, and I breathe in his manly scent of horses, wintry air, and promise.
“If you do not close your mouth, my love, I fear I shall have to kiss those pretty lips shut … which shouldn’t be a problem.” He taps me on the nose and pulls out a sprig of mistletoe. The smouldering gleam in his eyes lights a fire inside me that burns clear up to my cheeks.
“Now then, are you going to invite us in, or am I to use this weapon”—he waggles the mistletoe—“right here in front of God and country?”
“I—I …” How is it that by one sultry look, he can drive the words clear out of my head? I clear my throat and try again. “Yes! Come in. The ladies are eager to meet you.”
I peel from Flora’s grip and stoop to the girl’s level. “There are many new friends for you inside. Go see for yourself.”
“Hooray!” Her lopsided smile is a Christmas gift in and of itself.
I rise and step aside, allowing both Flora and Edmund to enter, then announce, “One and all, please welcome my intended, Mr. Edmund Archer, and his sweet daughter, Flora. I know you will love them every bit as much as I do.”
Flora hobbles as fast as she is able toward the women—who await her with open arms. And how could they not? Her sweet laughter could make a pinch-faced money lender giggle like a schoolboy.
Edmund pulls off his hat just as the back door bangs open.
“Coming through! Piping hot.” A delivery man in a grey coat and grease-stained apron barrels into the room, carrying a silver-domed platter. He sets the tray down at the end of the table, and when he removes the lid, a rich, meaty scent fills the air. The goose is browned to perfection.
“Come, Miss Flora!” Martha pats the empty place on the bench beside her. “You shall sit right here by me. This roast goose won’t get eaten by itself, you know.”
Flora glances over her shoulder. “Papa?”
Edmund laughs. “You heard the lady, Flora. She needs your help.”
Flora fairly flies to Martha’s side, clattering her crutch to the floor and whumping her little bottom onto the seat.
I peer up at Edmund and lower my voice, speaking for him alone. “I did not know you were bringing Flora. I thought you meant to keep her from the public?”
“I did … until you came along.” He pulls me to his side with one arm and gazes down at me. “You made me see that despite Flora’s impediments, she can be loved for who she is on the inside, even by a stranger, and she’s blossomed because of it. Because of you. All these years I have denied her that sort of fellowship, but no more.”
The ugly memory of the hunchbacked man taunted by the boys on the street flashes in my mind, and I frown up at Edmund. “Yet you were right to protect her. The world is a cruel place, especially for those who are different.”
He nods. “We are all different. We all bear one cross or another. And because of it, do we not each face our own particular cruelties?”
In reflex, I press my hand to my stomach. How many times have I cursed my barren womb that refuses to hold life? “Yes, I suppose we do,” I murmur, and once again doubt rises up my throat like soured Christmas punch. Though Edmund has said otherwise, will he not be sorry to marry a woman who can give him no son? “But are you certain about Flora, about me?”
He lays his finger on my lips, pressing them shut. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life. The
truth is, love, that we serve a God who transcends everything and is far more capable of protecting Flora than I—and One who is also able to bless us with new life if He so wills it. After all, faith moves mountains, right? So let us leave Flora and any future children in His very capable hands.” Bending, he brushes a kiss to my temple. “And I vow that as long as I draw breath, I will love you both so well, the cruelties of this world shall fade in comparison.”
I nestle my cheek against his shoulder. I can want for nothing more. “I do not deserve you.”
“No, love, you deserve far better. Now, as your lady friend said, that goose will not get eaten by itself. Shall we—”
Another knock cuts him off. Edmund lifts a brow at me. “Expecting more guests?”
“None that I know of.” I turn to the door, as does Edmund, and this time when I open it, I am not the only one whose jaw drops.
“Mr. Birkin?” I gasp.
“Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. White.” He dips his head. “Archer. Might I come in? I shan’t take more than a minute.”
“Of course.” I step aside.
A quiet growl rumbles in Edmund’s throat, and he ushers me behind him with a protective touch.
Birkin merely chuckles. “Stand down, man. I’ve not come to maul you or your associate on Christmas Day.”
Behind us, the women’s voices hush. Edmund folds his arms while widening his stance. “Then why are you here?”
Mr. Birkin reaches inside his coat pocket and produces a single silver key. “For you.”
Slowly, Edmund unfolds his arms and retrieves the offering, turning it over in his hand. “What is this for?”
“Now that Franklin is awake and able to talk, he told me it was you who saved him from the blaze.” Mr. Birkin’s gaze drifts to me. “And you, madam, who discovered him passing on confidential information. Yet even in the knowing, you saved his life. The both of you.”
Edmund grunts. “Life is precious, even that of a traitor.”
“Well said.” Mr. Birkin claps him on the back. “Look, Archer, I know we’ve had our differences, and likely will continue to in the future, but in the meantime, until you’re back up and running, my new warehouse stands empty. That’s what the key is for. Use it. Rent-free. Set up shop there temporarily until Nottingham Lace and Hose is rebuilt.”
My fingers fly to my chest. Surely, he cannot be serious.
Edmund must think the same, for he holds out the key. “I cannot accept this. You are my competition.”
Birkin merely shoves his hands into his pockets and pushes out his lower lip. “Actually, at the moment, I am your associate. When Lord Hampton learned of the fire, he came to me. Apparently, his wife and her sister are set upon a particular pattern of yours for the estate and will not be moved, even though the deadline for it has come and gone. I have the machinery to meet the order. You have the knowledge of the pattern. If we work together, split the profits fifty-fifty, we both stand to make quite a sum. Not as much as you would’ve made on your own, but that’s rather a moot point now, I suppose. So what do you say?”
I bite my lip. Edmund is a proud man. It’s been a slow adjustment for him to take me on as a partner. But this? His competitor? An avowed enemy? I doubt very much he’ll warm to this opportunity.
And as I suspect, he shakes his head. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Well, I do.” I shove past him and pump Mr. Birkin’s hand. “I say yes, and God bless us, everyone!”
“God bless us, everyone!” Laughter and cheers ring out behind me.
But the most endearing sound of all is Edmund’s warm chuckle. Strong hands grip my shoulders and gently pull me around. My pulse races at the light of love in Edmund’s gaze.
“And may God bless you especially, my love,” he murmurs. “At Christmas and all the year through.”
EPILOGUE
Later That Evening
Twilight fell heavy and hard and altogether too quickly for little Billy Tomkins. He hadn’t wanted to come today. Not on Christmas. Not when he had a more important matter to attend. He’d tried his best to skulk through back lanes and narrow alleys, even hid his precious cargo and doubled back just to be on the safe side, but his employer—Scruggs—had collared him all the same—and nobody said no to Moffit Scruggs.
Nobody.
“Get a leg on, Tomkins! Yer the last one!”
Billy scowled. Scruggs couldn’t be more right. The bigger boys had already hunted out the best bits from the factory ruins. All he’d found were two clay inkpots and the bone stem of a pipe. He’d earn a cuff on the head for that.
He upped his pace, sifting through ash and rubble in the blue-black light of the coming evening. Soon it would be too dark to see. His knuckles scraped on a jagged piece of metal, and he jerked his hand to his mouth, sucking away the saltiness and pain.
“Tomkins! Just cuz that high-and-mighty Archer ain’t here to kick us out don’t mean ye gots to take all night.”
He kicked at a charred piece of brick. Stupid Scruggs. Always badgering and bellowing. Twisting his lips, Billy glanced across the yard to the hulking shape near the gate then huffed out a defeated breath. A cuff on the head it was, then. But at least after that, he could be on his way, and a good thing too. He desperately needed to be. He’d heard that miracles happen on Christmas, and there were precious few hours left of it.
Shoving his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the inkpots and pipe stem and trudged toward Scruggs, but before he reached him, he stopped.
Blinked.
Stooped.
And marveled as he fished out a golden coin from beneath a charred timber. Glory! How had the others missed this treasure?
“What ye got there?” Heavy footsteps pounded behind him.
Swallowing down want and need, Billy eased the coin up his sleeve. Such a prize could buy his miracle. Slowly, he turned to face the man—then retreated a step.
Gads! But Scruggs was a timeless old troll—the sort who might’ve crawled out of a cave eons ago and would one day return to the damp and darkness of it. He smelled musty. Mouldy. An odour of perpetual rot hovered about his scrappy frame, his shabby cloak, the yellowed teeth that clung to his mottled gums when he smiled—which he did now. Billy shivered. He’d take a scowl from ol’ Scruggs any day of the week and twice on Sunday to avoid that leering grin.
Beneath the wilted brim of a patch-haired beaver hat, Scruggs’s dark eyes studied him. “What ‘ave ye got for me, then?” He shoved out his palm. Bony white fingers poked through the three ripped ends of his tattered gloves. “Let’s ‘ave it.”
Fear festered deep inside Billy’s belly. Scruggs wouldn’t like the paltry finds he had to offer. If the man pressed him and discovered the coin, Billy would be in the worst kind of trouble—and he didn’t have time for that, not with night falling. Should he just go ahead and give the snipin’ codger the coin or try to keep it hidden?
Scruggs struck so fast, Billy’s head jerked aside. Pain exploded in his skull. And though his mother—God rest her—had taught him otherwise, a curse flew past his lips.
“Ain’t got all night, boy!” Scruggs hissed.
Keeping the coin carefully tucked in his sleeve, Billy thrust the inkpots and pipe stem toward the man. He’d be hanged if he gave such a wicked cully his hard-won fortune. “Here’s all I got. Ain’t nothin’ else left.”
Scruggs snatched the items from his hand, his upper lip curling as he stared at the salvaged bits.
Billy retreated another step, his ears still ringing from the last blow—then froze when the weak cry of a babe travelled on the air from outside the gates. His gaze shot to the sound. Dash it! Time was more than running out.
“Worthless little street rat!” In one long step, Scruggs grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him so high, his feet dangled. “Makin’ ol’ Moffit wait in the cold for nothin.’ I oughta slit yer throat ‘ere and now fer such disrespect.”
Billy thrashed, desperate for air. If Scruggs made good o
n his threat, his wouldn’t be the only life taken. There was nothing for it, then. He had to give Scruggs the coin.
“I—I—” he tried to explain, but Scruggs shook him so hard, it was impossible to speak, to breathe, to anything.
With a shove, Billy flew backward. His head slammed onto the ground. So did his body. Tears stung, and instinctively he curled into a ball, tucking his throat out of reach. Was this it? Would the cold edge of a knife be the last thing he felt?
But no sharp steel sliced. Not even any boot kicked. Billy dared to open one eyelid, only to see the back end of Moffit Scruggs swooping out the front gate, his tatty old cloak hem unfurling behind him like great black bat wings.
Billy staggered to his feet. Mother was right. Miracles truly did happen on Christmas! Loosening his collar, he picked his way out of the factory ruins and, once out on the street, dashed to a nearby heap of recovered bricks. After a wild glance about to make sure Scruggs was well and truly gone, Billy dropped to his knees and pulled down the makeshift wall he’d thrown together earlier. The more bricks he removed, the louder the baby’s cry became, until finally, he edged out a small basket.
And his sister ripped loose a frightful wail.
Fast as a pickpocket, Billy flung away the rags he’d piled on top of her and shoved his face close to Mimi’s. “Shh. Brother’s here. I’ll set things right, I will. Yer belly’s soon to be filled.”
Mimi shot out her little hand and grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking hard.
“Kipes!” He jerked back and rubbed the sore spot, yet he couldn’t keep from smiling. She was a fighter, she was. Just like him. But just as quickly, his smile faded.
If only Mother had been a stronger fighter herself.
Mimi’s face reddened, a sure sign a lusty squall was about to break. Billy tucked the rags about her and snatched up her basket, swinging it as he whipped around. The sudden movement quieted his sister—but it wouldn’t for long.
3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 45