Improper Christmas

by Reed, Kristabel

Evelyn nodded in agreement, her brown eyes twinkling despite her age. “And since you’ve done such a superb job here at the hall with the décor, we also thought we’d freshen up many of the rooms in our own home.”

  Ah, yes, the — how did Mrs. Primsby describe it? — the soul destroying mausoleum. Lillian wasn’t sure why the Lansdowne sisters wished to employ her so desperately. Oh. Oh, of course she did; what a coup to have a viscount’s granddaughter as their companion.

  “Yes.” Catherine smiled, enthusiastic as well. “It’d be lovely to travel to the other villages for furnishings and such.”

  “Ladies,” Lillian interrupted and swallowed hard on another cough, “I thank you for your offer, but at this time I’m still settling into my cottage.”

  Small and paid for by Edmund, though it might be. She bit back her bitterness, surprised at its resurgence.

  “I require time to consider your offer,” she finished with a cool, polite smile.

  It felt stiff on her face, and with a start, Lillian tried to remember the last time she used that particular smile. Since the ball, she thought — since the night she spoke with Camilla and allowed Alice to introduce her to the patronesses like a marionette.

  Since before she began working with William. At the assembly hall, with William and the Spriggses, Lillian relaxed. For the first time in forever, she felt herself rather than the proper and dutiful young woman who saw to her father during his illness. Rather than the distant cousin in need of money to survive.

  “Oh.” Catherine frowned, her blue eyes predatory. “We hoped you’d start with us right away.”

  “Yes,” Evelyn agreed. “We wanted to renovate the rooms before we hosted our New Year’s parties.” She leaned forward, her brown eyes dancing again. “We’ll let you in on a little secret.”

  Catherine laughed and said, “Miss Simmons, Mrs. Martins’s niece, has her mind set on Mr. Pennington. And we’re certain she’ll get what she wants.”

  Evelyn laughed, a light, girlish sound at odds with her age. Lillian may have found it endearing. Despite their age, the Lansdowne sisters certainly did not act like septuagenarians. She might once have enjoyed their company, their enthusiasm.

  Not any longer. Not with her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest. Her lungs seized, and Lillian struggled to breathe, to contain her heartache. She willed her gaze not to search the crowd for William, to remain on Catherine’s excited blue eyes.

  “As she always seems to,” Catherine finished.

  “Mrs. Martins always gets what she wants as well,” Evelyn confided. “And she, too, wants Mr. Pennington married to her niece. And it’ll be a good thing, marriage between Miss Simmons and Mr. Pennington.”

  “Oh, yes, quite the prestige for this little village,” Catherine agreed.

  “I see,” Lillian managed.

  She finished her cider and desperately wished for more. However, she wasn’t certain her legs could hold her.

  “Please don’t wait too long to tell us your decision,” Catherine finished shrewdly.

  “Oh yes, it’ll be quite the coup to have the granddaughter of a viscount in our employ.” Evelyn nodded.

  At least they were honest, Lillian thought grimly.

  What did she feel? Shock? Shame? Yes, all that and more. It crawled sickeningly through her, a viscous eddy of humiliation and resignation.

  Why had she ever thought William might truly care for her? She was a spinster; Lillian knew that. No prospects, barely one hundred and twenty-five pounds a year to her name, dependent on Edmund’s steward for anything else.

  She’d never be self-sufficient, no matter her hopes. Not with so small a stipend from the cousin who inherited her father’s estate. But the thought of being a paid companion to two women who wanted her for her name, her connections, sickened Lillian.

  “I shall consider your offer, thank you.” The words were even and conciliary, and Lillian almost choked on them.

  “Good.” Evelyn nodded. “But don’t take too long. We want you, but we need someone promptly.”

  Uncertain what more there was to say, Lillian made her excuses and her escape. The heat closed in on her, and she needed room. She skirted the tables, her polite smile firmly in place. Frowning, she focused more on them.

  Too much holly. The baskets were covered in holly; there was barely any room for the baked goods meant to fill them. Lillian bit back a sigh. And that was why she and William planned to have the baskets decorated after the goods arrived.

  She swept her gaze over the room and saw Mrs. Martins and her cider brigade and almost, almost, crossed for more drink. But no, she hadn’t the strength for another conversation with that woman. Lillian wondered where Alice Miller wandered off to, as she no longer guarded Lillian’s escape, but then dismissed the thought.

  Mrs. Martins spilled cider on the table, freshly scrubbed and sanded. Lillian’s teeth set together with a snap.

  Resolutely turning from Martins, and her sloppy pouring, Lillian strode toward the rear office. William was there; she knew he hid inside. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until she approached the door that Lillian wondered if the beautiful Miss Simmons was also hiding in the rear office.

  Braced for anything, Lillian stepped through.

  She was not braced for anything, she realized. Not at all.

  William stood over Miss Simmons, papers in one hand, the other on the back of her chair. Back to the door, he leaned over her, and though the words she heard sounded like he offered her instruction, they buzzed dizzily around Lillian’s head.

  Miss Simmons looked up at him, her eyelashes fluttering and full attention on William. Lillian had honestly never seen eyelashes flutter, but Miss Simmons seemed to have mastered that fine art.

  William straightened from the chair the instant she opened the door and he looked at her, surprised.

  She read everything incorrectly. Much as she had with Edmund, with her assumptions based on her father’s fanciful ramblings, Lillian saw things that simply were not there.

  The arrangement between William and Miss Simmons had to have always been in place. And she was the bumbling fool who thought three weeks of working together to get the assembly hall ready for a Christmas feast meant more than it clearly did.

  “Pardon me,” she managed.

  Lillian cleared her throat and gathered what little confidence and pride she had left. William moved from the chair, and she pasted on the polite smile she thought never to use around him.

  “It seems everything is well in order,” Lillian said with a nod. “I thought I’d gather my things and say good day.”

  She nodded again, still feeling foolish. She raised her chin and stilled all movement. Her fingers didn’t reach for the bit of hair she just knew had once more escaped her chignon, nor did they twist about her handkerchief.

  William frowned and stepped forward. “Oh there’s much more for us to do,” he said, his voice pitched low. His blue eyes caught and held hers. “Won’t you stay?”

  Lillian fancied she heard a pleading note in his tone, but given her propensity to see things that certainly did not exist, she brushed it aside. Apparently she couldn’t tell the difference between politeness and honesty.

  She glanced over her shoulder to where Mrs. Martins’s brigade still worked like little bees. “I believe you have quite enough assistance for the feast,” she said and wondered if that dry note was as obvious to William as it was to her.

  “And I have things to attend to in my cottage,” she added.

  “Please allow me to send for my carriage to take you home,” he hurried to say.

  Pure solicitousness, Lillian reminded herself. He was only being kind, though the offer of his carriage did tempt her.

  “Mr. Pennington,” Miss Simmons called. “Do look at this; I believe there’s a problem with the accounts.”

  He turned, and before he said anything, or could move away, Lillian retreated. She had no desire to see him interact with the other woman and no need to stay
in a place she clearly was not wanted.

  Lillian hurried across the hall, though she needn’t fear anyone stopping her. Mr. Spriggs appeared just as she slipped through the crowd.

  “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, Mr. Spriggs,” she said with a soft smile for the man who had been nothing but generous with her. “Please tell Mrs. Spriggs I’ll speak with her later in the week.”

  He frowned but nodded. “I’ll, ah, I’ll fetch your coat then, Miss Norwood.”

  Spriggs quickly returned, and Lillian nodded her farewell. Buttoning her coat, she rushed from the hall.

  New town, old gossip. They knew too much about her past for her to ever break away from the hold it had on her.

  And why should someone like Mr. Pennington give her a second look? She never should’ve considered him an option and never listened to Mrs. Primsby — a matchmaker, so of course her occupation was to help others marry.

  Maybe that was an occupation Lillian might consider. No. In the same breath she thought that, she dismissed it out of hand. Maybe, once, when she was young and knew society, when she actually socialized. Now, after nearly seven years hidden in a distant estate by her father’s ill health, Lillian knew no one.

  Even those she counted as friends abandoned her once Father died.

  The wind continued to buffet her, but Lillian only quickened her pace. She wanted the semi-familiar walls of her cottage, the quiet of her front parlor, a cup of tea. She wanted solitude to nurse her wounds in peace and quiet.

  Though a part of her railed against it, Lillian supposed agreeing to the employment with the Lansdowne sisters was her only option. At least there, she knew exactly what to expect and what was expected of her. No missing the signs whatsoever.

  Not as she misconstrued with William.

  Chapter Eight

  A stone weighed heavily on her chest. And it scraped her lungs with every breath Lillian tried to draw.

  She had not slept well last eve; the cough that intermittently plagued her yesterday kept her up most of the night. She wanted a hot compress but hadn’t the strength to make it out of her room, let alone down the stairs and to the kitchen.

  Now, tired but feeling marginally better, she curled on her settee beneath a blanket. Lillian nursed a cup of tea and dearly wished she could breathe easier. Still, sitting in the parlor with the weak December sunlight lightening the inside, she looked out her window.

  The barren trees swayed with the winter wind and she watched, mesmerized, as the branches tilted to the side. From her position, Lillian could see the small brook that flowed behind the cottage. It was iced over now, as the days had been quite cold recently.

  Once spring arrived, she wanted to walk along the brook, dip her toes in its icy water. If she still lived in the Millers’ Cottage by the Brook.

  Yesterday morning she would’ve said of course she’d still live here. Today, after the whirlwind events at the hall, Lillian wasn’t certain.

  She wanted to walk to the hall; it was three days before the Christmas Yule feast, and she wanted to oversee the filling of the baskets. Though Lillian supposed Mrs. Martins, and her niece, had that well in hand, she hated not seeing a task through to the end.

  And though she knew better now, knew he held no interest in her, Lillian also wanted to see William. Sipping her tea, she closed her eyes against the image of William and Miss Simmons so intimate in that back office.

  Maybe later in the day, once she regained a bit of strength, she’d walk into the village.

  The correspondence beckoned her, but she ignored it. Yesterday she’d been too tired, bone weary, to sort through it, and just now it held no appeal. Forcing herself to open the first letter, Lillian lost herself in a friend’s words.

  Georgiana wrote overflowingly of her marriage to Mr. Browne and their three-month honeymoon to Bath.

  Smiling, happy for Georgiana and how settled she sounded, Lillian absently reached for the next letter in the pile. It was from her father’s steward.

  “Your father’s estate has been settled upon your cousin, Mr. Tate. Unfortunately, our petition for additional funds has been unsuccessful. Mr. Tate is quite adamant that one hundred and twenty-five pounds a year is sufficient.”

  Lillian crumpled the letter. Suddenly cold, her fingers stiff, she stared at the paper between clenched fingers. She thought it perfectly reasonable to ask for double that stipend — she had hoped she’d be able to pay for the cottage herself and never again rely upon Edmund.

  But this cottage cost one hundred pounds a year, leaving her with a bare twenty-five pounds for everything else.

  Lillian threw the paper across the room. It didn’t go far, and she watched it sink to the floor. Impotent fury drummed through her, pounding in her ears until it blocked out even the insistent wind. The estate could easily accommodate her; the paltry sum she’d requested would go as an unnoticed debt with the income the estate produced, but her cousin would not see her taken care of decently. She’d no idea why he was so ungenerous with her.

  There was more to the letter, but Lillian couldn’t bring herself to rise and retrieve it. No doubt it held more bad news, and she was not in the mood to read further. She pinched the bridge of her nose and breathed deeply. The cough overtook her, and she hunched over.

  The moment it passed, she sipped her tea and stood. No sense putting it off. Rising off the settee, she retrieved the crumpled letter and smoothed it over her secretary. Lillian penned a quick response to her father’s steward, thanking him for his efforts, and a longer one to Georgiana.

  She skimmed over the parts about her financial situation and Edmund’s role in it, and spoke enthusiastically of Chesham, the assembly hall, and their efforts to create a Christmas feast for the county’s soldiers.

  She did not mention William except in passing as the benefactor of the hall’s repairs.

  A wave of dizziness caught her. Lillian stumbled against the secretary, her knuckles white as she tried desperately to regain her balance. Another cough, a hacking, painful feeling, cut through her, and she leaned weakly on the small desk.

  Finally, breathing heavy, eyes watering, Lillian stood.

  She looked longingly at the stairs and her bedroom, but returned to the settee and her tea.

  Resting her head on the back of the settee, she wished she’d had the time to decorate her cottage for Christmas. A few sprigs of holly and mistletoe, a Yule log. But she’d spent all her time with William at the hall, and it slipped her mind.

  She missed decorating a house for the holiday. At her father’s estate, she and the servants spent days gathering greenery to brighten the dreary manor. They wove vines and evergreen branches into boughs and made sure every inch of the house looked its part. She spent hours in the kitchens as they cooked their Christmas feast, too, and ate with the staff.

  Her father never left his bed and certainly hadn’t joined them, and after Lillian saw to his meal, she joined the servants, where she embraced their warmth and laughter.

  Christmas Day she spent with friends, visiting their homes and escaping the sickness that haunted hers.

  Lillian poured another cup of tea and breathed deeply of the fragrant brew, letting the heat ease her chest. She’d take today to spend indoors with tea and sleep. Tomorrow she’d gather several evergreen branches, a few holly sprigs, and see to decorating her new home.

  Then she’d return to the hall. And William.

  No, Lillian refused to feel sorry for herself. Yes, she once more read into a relationship where more did not exist. But she truly cared for William and enjoyed his company, admired his organizational skills. She watched him change from the commander he was when they first met to a man who opened up to her.

  Shared pieces of his past with her.

  It wasn’t much, true, his stories. And Lillian acknowledged that. He told her a simple story of a scar he bore, and one of his childhood adventures. But William shared them with her, and that was what she treasured. And for those moments, they had
been friends.

  He never need know she wished for more.

  Another coughing fit overtook her, and Lillian curled onto her side. Her chest hurt; perhaps she should attempt to make herself soup. Bracing herself on the back of the settee, she traversed the short distance to her kitchen and gathered what few vegetables she had.

  It took her far longer to return to the parlor than it ought to, but even with weak legs, Lillian walked determinedly. The fire was low, and she stoked it until it blazed. Taking a moment to enjoy the heat, she breathed slowly and deeply, trying desperately not to cough.

  Though her arms shook with the effort, Lillian hung the pot from the hook and filled it with water she set there yesterday. She added the turnips and potatoes, and the little bit of nettles she acquired.

  Exhausted, breathing heavily, she returned to the settee and closed her eyes for just a moment.

  All too soon a knock on the door startled her awake. She jerked beneath her blanket and looked out the window. Lillian blinked at the view. The sun had obviously lowered in the sky — she slept much longer than she thought.

  Grabbing her blanket, she wrapped it around her shoulders and crossed to the front door.

  “Mr. Pennington!” she said in surprise.

  He stood there, braced against the wind, holding a basket. Lillian stared at it and saw a small pile of biscuits and a fruitcake, along with a loaf of bread and something else that hid beneath.

  The holly hung haphazardly off it, and the evergreen branches looked as if they were poked through the basket’s weaves by an angry child.

  “I did not see you at the hall today and thought I might bring you one of the baskets.” His words slowed, and he peered at her cautiously. “One that was already filled,” he added, but his words were indistinct as he continued to watch her.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. Lillian couldn’t help her smile. “That was quite thoughtful.”

  “Are you ill, Miss Norwood?” he asked, still studying her carefully.

  A cold breeze found its way around him, and Lillian shivered. Before she could answer him, he held the basket higher as if to ward off the December chill.