by Hall, Karen
Karen Hall Christmas Anthology
Christmas Stockings
The Christmas Proposal
The Comet that Came for Christmas
Karen Hall Anthology
A Books to Go Now Publication
Copyright © Karen Hall 2012
Books to Go Now
For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [email protected]
First eBook Edition –November 2012
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by
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Christmas Stockings
Karen Hall
Christmas Stockings
Copyright 2011
Karen Hall
For information on the cover illustration and design by Kristen Bales.
Questions contact [email protected]
First eBook Edition –November 2011
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by
www.bookstogonow.com
Chapter One
London. December 1892
“Your skin, I would cover with endless kisses and—
“Mr. Smithson!” Holly Chamberlain snatched off her glasses-- used only for reading of course-- and gave the gentleman across the desk a stern frown. “You cannot say that to a lady you hope to make your bride. At least not yet.”
Mr. Smithson blushed to the roots of his fair hair. “I beg your pardon, Miss Chamberlain. But when I think of Penelope, I am so overcome with emotion I can hardly control myself.”
“Of course.” Holly agreed, settling the glasses back on her nose. “But you don’t want to scare her away with your boldness, do you?”
“Heaven forbid!” Mr. Smithson vowed fervently, raising his hands in supplication. “What do you suggest?”
Holly tapped her chin. “Why not say, ‘your luminous skin outshines all other pearls’?”
Mr. Smithson’s eyes grew misty. “Oh, Miss Chamberlain. How fortunate are we bachelors, clumsy with words to have you. You help us convey our thoughts and deepest emotions for our beloved ladies.”
Holly bit the inside of her cheek to hide her smile at his lengthy praise. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Smithson. Writing letters, especially love letters, is a small talent, but I am happy to use it to help others. Now, let us go on.”
By the hour’s end, Holly had finished with her suggestions, and given a copy of the letter to Mr. Smithson to re--write in his own hand. The smiling gentleman handed over the required fee and departed, whistling a Gilbert and Sullivan tune. Holly had no doubt that by Advent’s completion, she would be reading the announcement of his engagement to one Penelope Witherspoon, insuring Holly’s success as the best letter writer in London. She could write a love letter for almost anyone to anyone.
Except herself.
Because no young lady of her social standing would dare to write a love letter to the man of her dreams. A man who existed in the form of one Grayson Clark, scholar and rector of St. Martin in the Pines. A man who was perfection itself.
Not that Holly didn’t have her admirers. She had several, and to be sure, they were all handsome and accomplished and successful. A woman would be pleased by the attentions of even one of them. Theodore-- Theo to his friends--Barrett in particular had been most ardent in his attentions. The barrister’s considerable charm had made him very popular in Holly’s social circle, and more than one young lady had given Holly the evil eye as it became more and more evident that Theo was launching a campaign to win Holly’s affections. A campaign encouraged by Holly’s father, Phineas
“You couldn’t do better,” Papa had wheedled only last night. “Theo is bound to receive a knighthood by the time he’s forty. He’s brilliant.”
And as full of himself as a spotted dick pudding. Holly thought massaging her hands. Her subtle attempts at dissuading Theo’s attentions had only been met by increased fervor. No doubt prompted by Holly’s generous dowry. Theo was quite well off in his own right, and wouldn’t need Holly’s dowry, but sometimes being the only child of a successful businessman who owned London’s largest chain of tobacco and candy shops had its drawbacks.
Holly turned her gaze to the window. The overcast late Friday afternoon sky suggested snow was on the way. Snow at Christmas. How perfectly, wonderfully romantic. Her mind drifted to scenes from her favorite book of love stories. Carriage rides over snow--covered fields, perhaps in search of the perfect Christmas tree. Long walks at twilight with silvery flakes floating down from the heavens, while holding the arm of someone most dear. A stolen kiss under the mistletoe—
The bell over the front door jingled in greeting, snatching her from her reverie. Holly quickly smoothed her hair and set her features into a welcoming smile. In the outer chamber she heard the birdlike chirp of her assistant, Celeste Stillwell, followed by the rustle of her skirts as she burst into Holly’s office.
“Holly,” she called, her china blue eyes wide. “You’re simply not going to believe who is here!”
“The Prince of Wales?” Holly joked. Celeste always grew excited by just about any visitor.
“No, it’s Grayson Clark!” Only Celeste knew of Holly’s true feelings for the clergyman and if possible, her eyes grew even wider.
Holly’s fingers curled around the arms of her chair and a rod of newly poured steel replaced her spine. “What does he want?” she whispered.
“H--he said something about hiring you to write a letter.” Celeste darted a glance over her shoulder before returning her gaze to meet Holly’s. “What should I tell him?”
Commanding her heart to stop its furious gallop, Holly said, “Show him in.”
Nodding, Celeste scampered from the doorway only to return seconds later. “Mr. Grayson Clark,” she intoned solemnly, stepping into the room. After a quick glance in the mirror on the wall, Holly snatched off her glasses, and put them on the desk before standing. She folded her trembling hands and waited.
The tall, thin figure who followed Celeste wore clerical black, with a white band around the collar of his neatly pressed shirt. A
wave of auburn hair swept back from his handsome features, and his amber eyes glittered at the women. Holly just barely contained her sigh of appreciation. No wonder half the women in the parish-- young and old-- showered him with invitations to tea and dinner on the unlikely pretext of fattening him up.
And no doubt looking him over as a prospective matrimonial candidate. Holly had heard rumors that no less than Miss Priscilla Honeywell, granddaughter of Sir Cyrus Honeywell, baronet, amateur scholar and chief patron of the Queen’s Players, a local dramatic society, had her eye on Mr. Grayson Clark. Even Holly’s own kitchen main, Clara, who was cast as Martha Cratchit in the Queen’s Players’ upcoming production of A Christmas Carol, said Miss Honeywell, cast as the Ghost of Christmas Present, did everything but openly flirt with Grayson Clark. Harold, the Chamberlain’s coachman, cast as Fizziwig in the same play, also had commented on Miss Honeywell’s attentions to Mr. Clark.
His smile sent a flush of warmth hurtling over Holly’s skin. “Good afternoon, Miss Chamberlain,” he said. “I hope I find you well?”
“Very well, Mr. Clark,” she said, proud her voice did not tremble. “You remember my friend, Miss Celeste Stillwell?”
“Yes indeed,” he returned, giving Celeste the same smile. “She greeted me most kindly.”
If it were not for Celeste’s death grip on the doorknob, she surely would have slid to the floor beneath the force of that smile. But like Holly, she managed not to croak out her words. “Thank you, Mr. Clark. Holly, I’ll be right outside if you should need me.”
She stepped into the outer office again, pulling the door not quite shut behind her. Holly gestured at the wooden captain’s chair before her desk. “Please be seated, Mr. Clark.”
He waited until she sat before lowering his long body into the indicated spot and placing the folder he carried on the corner of her desk. “Are you looking forward to the upcoming Christmas season, Miss Chamberlain?”
“I love Christmas,” Holly told him. “It’s my favorite time of year. And you surely must be busy learning your role of Bob Crachit for the Queen’s Players in their production of A Christmas Carol at St. Martin’s?”
His expression turned solemn. “Yes, and it’s because of that production I come to you today. The Queen’s Players and St. Martin’s needs your help.”
“I thought you told Celeste you needed help with a letter of some kind?” Holly could hardly believe that an Oxford scholar needed help with writing anything.
“There is that,” he said. “But our Mrs. Crachit has broken her ankle and we are in desperate need of a replacement. Matthew Timmons, our director has seen you in other productions and asked me to be his emissary to come and beg you to please join our little cast.”
Holly blinked. “Me?”-
“Yes indeed,” Mr. Clark affirmed with a quick nod. “Matthew said your performance in last year’s Christmas Pantomime at St. Bart’s was excellent.”
“Well--”Holly hesitated. Theo was playing Scrooge in the production and even with such a small role as Mrs. Crachit, rehearsals would put her constantly in his company. As it would with the man seated across from her. Holly’s heart skipped a beat at the thought.
“Well,” she repeated, “I suppose I could do that.”
“Excellent!” Mr. Clark declared, opening the folder and taking out a large sheaf of papers. “Here are your scenes. We have a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock and Sunday afternoon as well. I know that St. Martin in the Pines is not the most elegant church in the parish, but it does boast a very large stage in the Parish Hall, with plenty of room behind it for actors to wait and props to be stored and—”
“And where you are the rector,” Holly said as she took the papers. Her fingertips grazed his, sending a jolt of warmth up her arm.
“Well, yes,” he said, a note of mock solemnity entering his voice. “There is that.”
They shared a laugh. He had a nice laugh, not too loud, and one that brought a light to his eyes. Miss Jane Austen should have mentioned that men too could have “very fine eyes.”
“So.” Holly picked up her pen. “As to the letter Celeste mentioned you needed?”
His cheerful expression changed to one of such solemnity that Holly nearly gasped aloud as she watched the light fade from his eyes. “Ah, yes,” he said after a long moment. “That is to say—”
If she were not sure of his confidence in all matters, Holly would swear he was nervous. “Do go on,” she urged.
“It is a matter of the utmost delicacy,” he began. “I rely on your total discretion.”
“You have it,” Holly said. “I could not have developed my clientele otherwise. And I do help people frame their thoughts. Their words are their own, with some help.”
“I have a friend who desires to make his affection known to a lady of his acquaintance,” Mr. Clarkson said slowly. “He is a rather shy fellow, and his handwriting at best is--is--”
“Illegible?” Holly prompted.
“More like hieroglyphics,” he corrected ruefully. “Deciphering his correspondence is a near impossible task. He is rather good with words but needs a scribe to write them down on paper. I understand you often write letters for those who have not the knowledge or the skill?”
“I do help those who need to have letters written or read, sometimes to family and sometimes ones of business. And if I can help in matters of the heart, so much the better.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, as if considering her words. “And your father does not object to your working?”
“Papa has always remembered how his own grandfather could not read or write,” Holly said wistfully. “And yet it did not stop him from opening the first tobacco and candy shops that carry our name to this day.”
“Who in London does not know of Chamberlain’s Sweets and Tobacco?” Mr. Clark struck a pose.”’ A smoke for every taste and a sweet for every tooth.’“
Holly laughed as he quoted the Chamberlain’s slogan. “Papa agreed with my desire to honor great--grandfather’s memory by offering the help to others that he did not have.”
“You have a generous heart, Miss Chamberlain,” Mr. Clark said gently. “Not many young ladies would do what you do.”
“Well, since my sewing and knitting skills are non--existent, I can hardly make garments for the poor.” Holly pulled an expression of mock resignation. “Now, back to the business at hand. “Why does your friend not simply come and ask me himself to write the letters?”
“As I have said, he is a shy man who prefers to keep his personal affairs as private as possible. And so he has engaged me to acquire your services. I would write them myself, but my own handwriting is at times poor, and my friend desires the script to be as beautiful as the receiver of the letter.”
And because I haven’t the guts to tell you myself that I love and adore you above all women. I only hope I can screw up the courage to give you the letters. Grayson tried hard not to stare at the brunette beauty who haunted his every waking moment and nearly as much as his sleeping ones. A lone drop of perspiration crept down his neck and then his back. Thank goodness his wardrobe was full of freshly laundered shirts and collars.
She lowered her gaze and seemed to be studying the desk’s polished surface from beneath her long lashes. Then she looked up, and her chocolate -colored eyes twinkled at him.
“You’re his Miles Standish, aren’t you? Or perhaps his Cyrano de Bergerac?” She cocked her head in study of him and added, “But without the nose of course.”
A laugh escaped him and he said, “No, thank goodness for that.”
She joined his laughter, a light, sparkling sound and a tiny ray of hope sparked in his heart. Perhaps there might be hope for him after all.
“Well,” the object stuff of his dreams said, pulling a single sheet of paper towards her from the stack
on the edge of her desk. “Shall we begin?”
Grayson cleared his throat. “Very well.” He reached into an inner coat pocket, took out a folded sheet of paper and held it up. “I took the liberty of having him dictate his letter to me.”
“A wise idea,” Miss Chamberlain affirmed with a nod.
“Perhaps I should read it aloud first, so you will understand the flow of his language?”
She nodded again and Grayson unfolded the sheet, staring hard at the penmanship that had been the despair of his instructors at Oxford. “Since the moment of our first meeting, you have stirred my heart,” he read aloud. “Such beauty, grace and gentleness combined is a rare treasure, one I could hardly dream of one day having as my own. No man could deserve such a treasure, but men will dream, and often of that which they cannot have. I am such a man. I hope that you may consider me a dear friend, and will one day consider me more. Your devoted servant—” Grayson stopped and looked at Miss Chamberlain. “That’s all,” he said.
“How very eloquent,” she said softly. “The lady your friend wishes to impress will undoubtedly be moved.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I have no doubt. Now if you will read it to me again, slowly so I can—”
The door banged opened and Theodore Barrett, stepped into the room, exuding the confidence Grayson so envied. Well--tailored and well- shod, he carried the air of a man who always gets what he wants.
And he, no doubt, like Grayson, very much wanted Miss Holly Chamberlain’s attention and affections.
“Good afternoon, Holly,” he said. “Your father has sent me ‘round to fetch you home to supper.” His blue eyes flickered in Grayson’s direction. “Hello, Grayson,” he greeted. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Theodore.” Grayson clipped off the word.
“Mr. Clark is here on a mission for a friend,” Miss Chamberlain told him. “You and Papa will have to wait.”