The Viscount's Christmas Miracle

by Erin Grace

  William Drummond was the village carpenter’s son, and quite the catch. At twenty-eight he was as handsome as he was sweet tempered and well-mannered unlike the devil of a man she’d met yesterday.

  But, best of all, William only had eyes for Annabelle. ‘You noticed, then?’ Annabelle glanced at her shyly.

  ‘How could I not? His countenance speaks his heart, poor man.’ She laughed, drawing a broad smile from her friend.

  ‘But, Lily, if he truly has any kind of feelings for me then why hasn’t he approached me? Apart from the odd good wishes as we pass by, he says nothing.’

  ‘Hmm, let me see. Perhaps it may have something to do with you being the youngest of eight children and the only girl. I can’t imagine how the poor man must feel when every time he gets anywhere near you, you instantly become surrounded by your own personal stone wall.’

  Annabelle let out a sigh and dabbed her forehead with the back of hand. ‘I suppose you are right. But my brothers mean well. And since Papa died, they have taken it upon themselves to protect me.’

  ‘No one I know is more protected.’

  ‘Suffocated more like. Honestly, Lily, if they keep it up, they’ll protect me all the way to spinsterhood.’

  She laughed, but the smile faded from her mouth as she turned into the laneway where Mrs Jenkins cottage stood. All manner of dreadful ideas suddenly filled her head. No matter how much she’d tried to shake the feeling of foreboding that had kept her sleepless all night, a cold trickle ran through her veins.

  No. Mrs Jenkins was perfectly fine. In fact, the lady was probably sitting in her kitchen, kettle bubbling merrily over the fire in readiness for a nice hot cup of tea when she got there. Having had little more than a crust of bread with a scrape of butter for breakfast, she could do with a good strong cup.

  The sight of Mrs Jenkins cottage roof lifted her spirits. At last. In a few moments she’ll be able to put her fears to rest.

  ‘Come now, Annabelle, that’s nonsense. You are barely nineteen. Besides, I’m certain it must be lovely to have so many siblings to care for you.’

  ‘I do appreciate them, I do. But enough is too much. Only three of them are married, and the rest are truly incorrigible. Don’t you recall the Wyndham’s dance last month? Poor Benjamin Marsh couldn’t get within two feet of me. I swear the man was going to swoon.’

  She laughed and copped a sharp look from her friend.

  ‘On the other hand.’ Annabelle smiled sweetly. ‘If there were less of them to pester me, William might stand a chance. Now, if only I could get another one of them married?’

  ‘Oh, no. Do not give me that look. We have been through this before. As much as I adore your brothers, I am not interested in any of them and they me. I’m like another sister. In fact, I am not inclined to marriage in any regard.’

  ‘But, you admit you like them. Let me see. You are two and twenty, and Jacob has just turned five and twenty. He would be the perfect age for you.’

  ‘Jacob? Hardly. We have nothing in common.’ Having no dowry didn’t help her prospects either. ‘Besides, I believe he has his eye on Millicent Croft.’

  Annabelle wrinkled up her nose. ‘Millicent Croft? I don’t think they would deal very well together at all.’

  ‘Oh, so now who is being the over protective one?’

  Annabelle raised her chin. ‘That is hardly the point.’

  She smiled as she adjusted the basket and made her way along the weed ridden path to Mrs Jenkins’s door. The frosts had killed off what few flowers she’d planted in the old woman’s front garden in an attempt to brighten up the cottage. Oh well. She’d try again in the spring.

  As always, she gave a short rap with the rusty iron hanger and waited for the reply. Odd. Not a sound. She knocked again and tried turning the handle. Locked.

  ‘Very odd.’

  Annabelle stood next to her. ‘Hmm? What is the matter?’

  ‘Nellie’s door is locked.’

  ‘Perhaps she isn’t home?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps. But surely, she knew I would be calling this morning. It’s unlike her to be away, especially in this weather.’ She glanced around the small landing in the hope of finding a note. ‘And not a word it seems.’

  ‘She may have forgotten. I know when my grandmother became old she would forget what she was doing or where she put things. Once she put a live chicken in the pantry and it made a horrible mess. Mama was not at all pleased. Nellie may have just gone on an errand.’

  ‘Yes, she may have. But I shall check the back garden just to be sure.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had a garden.’

  ‘Well. I have been trying to plant something of a vegetable plot for her, but I’m afraid I’m not much of a gardener.’

  And wasn’t that the truth. Her carrots had resembled pale withered parsnips and the spinach had gotten eaten by snails before she could harvest a single leaf. Stephaney had offered to help her, but she couldn’t ask her sister to work more than she already did.

  As she made her way around to the back of the cottage, a sharp squawk made her drop the basket. What on earth? There, fluffing its feathers in the morning gloom beside the barn was her nemesis.

  Wretched chicken.

  Absentmindedly, she reached up and touched the tender marks the creature had etched upon her scalp. But, as tempted as she was to reattempt the birds capture, she needed to find Nellie Jenkins first.

  She turned to the back door and gave the handle a firm tug, but the door didn’t budge. Rubbing her fingers, she tried again, but to no avail.

  Something was definitely amiss.

  ‘It’s no use, Annabelle. This door appears to be locked as well.’ Her friend smiled brightly then reached down and picked up the basket of vegetables.

  ‘That settles it then. We should return to the village and see if Mrs Jenkins is there. Or, perhaps we could return tomorrow? I’m sure there is some reasonable explanation for her not being here.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Not entirely convinced of her friends reasoning, she glanced once more at the door then spied a small window a little further along the wall. It was open. ‘Wait. I think I may have found a way inside.’

  ‘Lily, no. You can’t be seriously considering climbing in there.’

  Ignoring her friend’s pleas, she reached up and opened the window wide. Yes, she could fit in there. A little snug perhaps, but windows were hardly built for comfort.

  ‘Wait here, I shan’t be too long.’

  Annabelle shook her head and gripped the basket handle so hard her knuckles turned white. ‘I don’t think this is a very good idea, Lily. What if someone came along? How on earth would we explain what we are doing?’

  ‘Come now, who besides us ever visits Nellie? And if per chance someone did come along, then we could simply explain our concern. What if Nellie hasn’t gone out? What if she has had some kind of accident and is laying on the floor inside unable to call out for help?’

  Her friend bit her bottom lip and the color drained from her face. ‘Oh, dear. You don’t think she may be dead, do you?’

  ‘Naturally I don’t, but we can’t take any chances.’

  Spying an old wooden bucket, she grabbed it and turned it upside down. Hoisting her skirts, she leaned into the window, grasped the edges of the sill with her hands and tried to push herself through. The icy breeze raced along her legs and she shivered. Lord, it was cold!

  But, instead of gently edging her way inside she simply swayed back and forth like some fool. She was stuck. ‘Annabelle, quickly, come push me in. I think my skirts are caught.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A sudden shove from behind sent her reeling into the darkened room and she landed on the floorboards with a painful thump.

  ‘Ergh. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Can you see her?’

  With her petticoats up over her head, she grimaced. ‘I can’t see much of anything yet.’

  She pushed down her skirts, cough
ed and slowly got to her feet. There would be bruises in the morning. ‘Nellie? Nellie, are you there? It’s Lily.’

  It took a few moments for her eyesight to adjust to the dim light as she made her way from the small kitchen into the hallway. She reached the small parlor only to find the room empty.

  The hearth looked dark and cold, so her friend had either left very early or hadn’t been there since yesterday.

  ‘Nellie. Please answer if you can hear me.’ She opened the door to the bedroom and gasped. ‘Oh, dear Lord.’

  Her heart jumped as she surveyed the scene. The old bed was made, but the various items scattered upon the floor suggested someone had either put up a struggle or left in quite a hurry. An open armoire displayed empty shelves and hanging rack, only a tattered woolen stocking lay curled up upon the floor.

  Nellie Jenkins was gone.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Mr Dunford.’ Lily dropped the flour-coated rolling pin in shock as the large figure of a man appeared in the vicarage kitchen doorway. The wooden rod rattled across the stone floor and came to a stop against the man’s boot. ‘I…I didn’t see you there. What are you doing here?’

  A wide grin split his lips, revealing two missing teeth, the rest stained yellow from tobacco. Her stomached turned. Just his breath alone made her ill. That and his pungent body odor. Didn’t the man ever bathe?

  He reached up and rested his hand upon the door jamb.

  ‘Now, love, how many times ‘ave I asked you to call me Gilbert?’

  She wiped her dusty hands on her apron, grabbed a mixing bowl and maneuvered her way to the other side of the old wooden table. ‘Come now, Mr Dunford. You know that is hardly appropriate. And neither is you being here at the moment. Besides, as you can see I have much to do, what with Christmas so close and all.’

  How was it Gilbert Dunford always managed to catch her home alone? If she didn’t know any better, she wouldn’t put it past her aunt to arrange such opportunities.

  For near six months now, Dunford has been pressing his suit for marriage and although she had nothing against marrying a hard-working pig farmer, she did object when the man was often filthier than his livestock.

  Then there was the small matter of him being twice her age and having already buried three wives over the past twenty years. She refused to become the next ‘late Mrs Dunford’.

  He wiped some spittle from his whisker-covered chin with the back of his hand then pushed himself away from the doorway.

  ‘Come along, my girl. I just stopped by for a friendly chat.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s very nice of you. I know you are such a busy man.’ She glanced down at the heavy rolling pin and wondered how fast she could pick it up if she had to. The events at Nellie’s cottage three days ago had left her wary and the last thing she needed was the wretched man forcing himself upon her. There’d be little chance fending him off by herself. Lord. Didn’t the man have some hams to cure or something? ‘However, as there is no one else at home, I’m certain you will forgive me if I ask you to leave.’

  He moved closer and rested his hands down on the table, the smile on his blasted face becoming wider, if that were possible. Oh dear. Panic filled her breast. The stupid oaf has taken her objection as some kind of challenge.

  ‘Well then, I’ll just say what I came to then I’ll be off. Don’t want you fretting and getting all upset on my account.’

  Thank goodness. But, the sudden sense of relief was replaced with suspicion. ‘And exactly what was it you wished to say?’ Oh please, don’t propose again.

  ‘I’d like it if you’d accompany me to the village fair next week. Got my prize pigs on show. Wouldn’t be surprised if I take the blue ribbon again this year. Just think how lucky you’d be, walking around on the arm of the first prize winner.’

  Him or the pig?

  ‘That is a very tempting offer, Mr Dunford, however I really should ask my mother and uncle’s permission before I accept. You do understand of course?’

  The smile slid away for a brief moment then an odd spark lit his eyes and he grinned again, his tongue sliding over his cracked lips.

  Ergh. Charming.

  ‘’Course I do. Have to be proper now, don’t we?’ He gave a wink then pushed himself from the table. ‘Very well, I’ll see you at church Sunday. Might just have a chat to your uncle about putting in a good word with your mother, eh?’

  Dear lord, no.

  She forced a smile. ‘I suppose so. I’ll see you Sunday then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get the rest of these tarts in the oven before my aunt gets home.’

  She swore she could almost see his mouth salivating as he eyed the cooling cakes.

  ‘What more could a man ask for, eh? Pretty and can cook. Tarts are my favorite.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Perhaps if he tried one and realized they had the texture of gritty stone and tasted like bog peat he’d soon change his mind about her. No matter how much she tried, she never could cook properly. Once she’d made scones for her family, but when she’d served them up, they were so hard no one could eat them. Father had even tried soaking one in his hot tea, but it was of no use.

  Yet despite this fact, Henrietta still insisted she do the bulk of the cooking. Only three times a week and on special occasions would her aunt allow Elsie, the widow of a local farmer, to cook. Not that she, her sister or mother would ever be invited to join her uncle and aunt on such ‘occasions’, but Elsie would always save a tray for them to eat upstairs.

  The last guest was two months ago when a church official had come to see her uncle. Elsie had cooked up roast beef and Yorkshire puddings with gravy. Meanwhile, she and her family were made to hide upstairs as if they didn’t exist.

  Dunford reached out to take a pastry from the cooling rack, but she smacked his hand away before smiling. Not that she wouldn’t relish the look on his face if he tried one, but if she let him eat, it would be an invitation to stay for tea. And she wanted him to leave – now!

  ‘Now, now, you wouldn’t have me in trouble with my aunt.’ Come on. Think of a reason. ‘She was very particular about how many tarts she wanted for her guests of the church flower committee.’ Good enough.

  A frown creased his lips. Excellent. Perhaps something she’d said finally sunk in to his thick head.

  She began edging him toward the back door. ‘In fact, she is due back any time now and I don’t think your being here would make a very good impression. If anything, I’d probably be punished by not attending the fair.’

  ‘Aww right.’ He didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘But I’ll still be seeing you in church then?’

  At last, he was going.

  ‘Yes. I’m certain you will. Good day to you.’

  With a distinct grunt, he turned and walked out the back door, leaving muddy boot tracks in his wake. Grubby wretch.

  A deep sigh escaped her. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

  ‘And, don’t forget.’ Her head snapped up to find Dunford reappeared in the door way. Bloody hell. ‘I’ll be expecting you to accept my invitation.’

  She grabbed the edge of the door and began slowly closing it. ‘That will depend on what my uncle has to say. Good day.’

  Without waiting for a reply, she quickly latched the door, turned around and rested her back against it.

  Sunday. She was doomed.

  There would be little to no chance of not attending service. She could have five different ailments, including the plague, and Henrietta would still insist she attend the boring liturgy.

  On several occasions she could have sworn she heard snoring coming from somewhere in the back pews. She had her suspicions the culprit was one of the haughty women who belonged to Henrietta’s ladies’ group.

  The fact remained, however, though dedicated her uncle may be, his sermons were nothing less than lack-luster to say the least.

  But that was how her uncle approached everything in life. Unlike his overbearing wife who reveled in the latest gossip and bein
g involved in every village event, he appeared to seek as little attention as possible. More often than not, he could be found hidden away in the church’s tiny office, his head buried within some enormous tome. In all the time she’d spent at the vicarage, he must have said no more than a dozen words directly to her.

  When she’d first thought Mrs Jenkins missing, she’d insisted he accompany her to investigate the disappearance, but he refused claiming the old woman was entitled to do as she wished without his interference. More likely he didn’t want to invoke Henrietta’s displeasure by assisting her with any task.

  Instead, he suggested she do more chores at the church instead of wasting time with the elderly who couldn’t be bothered attending his service.

  She pushed away from the door and took in a deep breath. But what to do about Mr Dunford?

  The loud rapping at the door forced a groan from her, as she turned around and wrenched on the handle. Enough was too much. Dunford would get a piece of her mind. ‘Sir, you have tried my patience today for the last time.’

  Her eyes widen, mouth popped open as the stranger she’d met at Nellie’s stood before her. ‘You’re not Mr Dunford.’

  ‘No. I’m afraid not. Sorry to disappoint.’

  The tall figure removed his hat, ducked under the doorway and stood inside the kitchen. Good heavens. His large frame seemed to swallow up the room. Icy flecks from his greatcoat littered the stone floor, where they melted into dozens of tiny grey water drops. His riding boots were streaked with mud and his breeches were stained from the saddle and rain.

  The wintery outdoors scent of leather, horse and warm damp wool floated in the air and tickled her nose. A strange combination, but one she found oddly appealing.

  Why had he come?

  ‘I…I apologize for my behavior now. I thought you were someone else.’ She slowly backed away, hoping to put some distance between them in case she had to flee, but bumped up against the kitchen table. Bother. ‘Might I ask what you are doing at my back door?’ And what did you do with Mrs Jenkins?

  Though she wasn’t one to be flighty, Annabelle had filled her mind with all sorts of terrible notions about what may have happened to Nellie.