The Nutcracker Reimagined: A Collection of Christmas Tales

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Happy Reading!

  Emma

  Chapter One

  The Highlands of Scotland

  November, 1838

  “Have you made a decision yet?”

  Edmund MacLainn, Earl of Kinfallon, clenched his teeth at the question. Bloody hell, they hadn’t even reached his study yet and already Perry Selfridge was badgering him for an answer.

  Edmund cleared his throat, keeping his pace steady as he strode toward the stairs leading to the north tower. He could feel the Lowland esquire’s eyes on his back, but he refused to respond just yet.

  As he began trudging up the narrow spiral stairs, Edmund silently cursed himself. He ought to have been sitting in his study for Selfridge’s arrival. He could’ve been waiting behind the enormous oak desk when Mrs. MacDuffy showed the man in. It would have asserted Edmund’s position—he was an earl and the keeper of the Kinfallon estate, not to be brow-beaten by some English-educated Lowland auditor into selling off his ancestral lands.

  But Selfridge had caught Edmund just as he’d been about to ride out to a few of the crofters’ farms. It had been far too long since he’d seen to his people. It very well might already be too late, but Edmund at least had to try to save the Kinfallon legacy.

  As he shoved open the wooden door to his study, Edmund cursed himself again. Nay, he shouldn’t have been positioned behind the desk, waiting for the esquire. He shouldn’t have brought Selfridge here at all, for the combination of dust and stacked papers covering every flat surface in the study only played into Selfridge’s hand. Edmund had been neglecting his duties. He’d let the management of the estate get away from him these last two years, and now he was so far behind that he feared his only option would be to acquiesce to Selfridge’s scheme.

  Nay, he had one more option.

  Edmund crossed the study and came to a halt before the narrow window carved into the ancient stone wall. The opening was little more than an arrow slit, once used by long-dead men to defend this place. All the windows in Kinfallon Castle had been glassed many years ago, but that touch of modernity only highlighted the age of the medieval keep. The castle was from another time, a reminder of Edmund’s responsibility.

  “Well?” Selfridge prodded.

  Edmund eyed the sloping, golden-brown hillsides through the glass. Rain had been falling intermittently all day, and now a thick mist was settling over the tops of the Scots pines and winter-bare oaks in the distance.

  “I havenae decided yet,” he said at last.

  Selfridge moved behind the desk to stand next to Edmund at the window. “But just think of it, my lord,” he urged. “Your land could be producing double—perhaps triple—what you currently make in rents from your crofters.” He swept his hand across the little square of rugged landscape framed by the window. “Sheep can graze far more hours each day than a farmer can work. Your income would—”

  “I have no need to squeeze more coin from the land,” Edmund cut in, his voice coming out sharper than he’d intended. He drew a breath before continuing. “I dinnae keep a house in London, nor do I feel the urge to stay abreast of the latest trends, as ye can see.”

  Edmund meant the dark, outdated condition of this ancient castle, but Selfridge’s gaze flicked over his clothes. Edmund’s lips compressed. He’d donned a kilt, riding boots, and a simple woolen coat for his trip to the crofts. The crofters were more welcoming when he was dressed like a Highlander rather than an Englishman. And besides, it was damn comfortable.

  Still, he looked like a barbarian compared to Selfridge, who wore a smart burgundy frock coat, charcoal trousers, and pristinely polished black shoes. The man’s snowy-white cravat bobbed as he coughed.

  “Indeed,” Selfridge said vaguely. “But…” He cast his gaze about, clearly searching for another angle to approach the topic. “But surely you will need funds if you are to keep this castle in working order.”

  The list of repairs was never-ending—crumbling stones here, leaky roof there, and a near-constant effort to seal out the drafts. But Selfridge didn’t need to gain yet another advantage with that knowledge. “We get by,” Edmund said simply.

  Selfridge’s blue eyes lit up at that, and belatedly, Edmund realized his mistake. We.

  It was all the opening Selfridge needed.

  “Ah,” he said, tilting his dark blond head in a show of sympathy. “Yes. I passed through the village on my way from the Sutherland estate. There is talk that you have had to let your sister’s latest companion go. Lady Clarissa’s wellbeing certainly must weigh heavily on your mind, my lord.”

  In that moment, Edmund hated Selfridge. He hated the man for the faux concern shining in his keen eyes, hated the sound of his posh, put-on English accent. But most of all, he hated him for the subtle threat in his words. He was letting Edmund know that the gossips were already hard at work spreading tales about his mad sister and Edmund’s latest failure in securing help for her. And he was reminding Edmund just how precarious his position was.

  Edmund had been so preoccupied with Clarissa’s health that the notices, inquiries, and accounts on the estate soon piled up. The embarrassing truth was, Edmund had no idea where things stood. He—and Kinfallon—might be in dire straits for all he knew. Selfridge’s constant urgings for Edmund to clear his lands of farmers and replace them with sheep was no doubt aimed at exploiting that distraction.

  Selfridge had accomplished such clearances for the Countess of Sutherland several years ago when he’d served as her factor, the manager of her lands. The move had lined both the Countess and Selfridge’s pockets heavily—and displaced thousands of farmers who’d worked the land for generations.

  When some of the families refused to be carted off to the coast to become fishers and kelp collectors, crofts had been set on fire, a few with their residents still inside.

  Edmund clenched his fists, his thoughts drifting up to his sister, who was in her chamber at the top of the north tower. Many had suffered. Innocents had died. All were eventually broken into submission. Cheviot sheep now covered the Sutherland estate.

  Edmund would be damned before he saw that happen on the MacLainn ancestral lands. But with Clarissa’s mind in pieces and no one able to help, Edmund had let his duties to his people and the estate go unattended. If Edmund failed again in finding someone to look after his sister, he would never be able to work through the stacks of paper covering his desk. And he might just have to accept Selfridge’s proposal to clear Kinfallon of its people and replace them with sheep.

  Winter was nearly upon them. The fields were fallow now, and would remain so until the spring. If he was forced to displace his people and follow Selfridge’s scheme of sheep grazing, Edmund refused to do it in as cruel a way as the Sutherlands had. They would need a few months to move, to adjust to their new lives before spring came. Which meant that Edmund was running out of time to make a decision.

  He had one last hope—for Clarissa, for his people, for all of Kinfallon. And that hope was to arrive any day now.

  “As I said, I havenae reached a decision yet,” he said, turning away from the window. He let his hands rest on the edge of the cluttered oak desk. Bloody hell, how was he ever going to make this right? His thumb rubbed along a nick in the wood, its edges worn dark and smooth by generations of MacLainns worrying the same spot.

  “One month,” Edmund murmured as he absently slid his thumb over the divot. One month was enough time to know if the woman he’d sent for would be up to the task of aiding Clarissa. Hell, most of the others he’d hired hadn’t lasted a fortnight. And one month would buy him time to go through these papers and determine if the estate was still solvent.

  Edmund looked up to find a slow smile breaking on Selfridge’s face.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  “I’m sure ye can see yerself out,” Edmund said, straightening. Though the mist had grown heavier over the course of their conversation, Edmund longed to begin the ride that the Lowlander’s visit had delayed. He needed to clea
r his head—and get to work. His people—and all those who’d come before them—were counting on him.

  Chapter Two

  Thea clutched the seat of the otherwise empty coach, but her shoulder still banged into the coach’s side as one of the wheels dropped into yet another gouge in the road. Could it even be called a road anymore? She drew back the curtain on the square window and took in the darkening landscape.

  The rain had ceased several hours ago, but the path they traveled was clearly sodden, for flecks of mud kicked up from the wheels and dotted the window, obscuring her view somewhat. The softly rolling hills and moorlands of northern England and the Scottish Lowlands had given way to craggy mountains, which emerged around them like ghosts through the mist as they lurched on. Clumps of dark trees lay in the hollows between peaks, some even daring to cling to the lighter-colored rocky outcroppings along the slopes.

  The flat light of the fading day cast everything in blues, grays, and browns. Thea scanned for anything familiar, anything inviting, but all she saw was this desolate, grim landscape.

  Just then, the coach’s wheel slammed into another divot. Thea’s head smacked against the side of the coach. With a sharp intake of breath, she brought her hand up. There was no blood, of course, only a rapidly forming lump on the side of her head. Pressing her lips together, she squeezed her reticule with her other hand, comforting herself with the sound of crinkling paper.

  Yes, she had been sent for. Yes, there was a position waiting for her here in the Highlands. The missive signed by the Earl of Kinfallon himself was proof of that. She ran over the details of her new assignment to give her mind something to do while her body fought not to be flung across the coach as they made a sharp turn.

  The earl had contacted her directly several weeks ago. Thea had no idea how he’d found her, but she was grateful, for her previous post as governess to the Braxtons in York was about to end. Gertrude, her charge, had turned thirteen and was in need of a finishing governess to teach her the ways of society before her debut in a few years’ time.

  In his note of inquiry, the earl had mentioned that his younger sister was in need of Thea’s abilities and asked if Thea was willing to travel to the Highlands for the job.

  That had given her pause. Weren’t there governesses in Scotland for the young sisters of earls? She’d shelved that question, though, for the offer held a…particular appeal. She knew not a soul in Scotland, and the Highlands were about as far away from London as she could get without boarding a ship. York had been a good start, but the more distance that separated her from her past, the better.

  Besides, she would have had to arrange employment for herself in a matter of months anyway. It was rare for a governess to be sought out by an employer and not the other way around—perhaps Thea was finally making strides toward the type of positive reputation that would keep her employed for years to come.

  The coach suddenly creaked to a halt. Thea let a relieved breath go. Not only was this rough ride finally at an end, but they must have reached Kinfallon Castle, for the driver had told her they would make it there before nightfall.

  The coach door popped open and she accepted the driver’s hand down, but as she glanced up, instead of a keep fit for an earl, she was met with a two-storey wooden inn.

  “This isn’t…”

  “Beg pardon, miss,” the driver said, moving to the back of the coach for her single trunk. “This is as far as I can go tonight. The fog will make the passage difficult, and I fear I’ll break an axle on these roads.”

  Thea stood, stunned. “But we were to reach the castle today.”

  “Apologies, miss. Ye can stay at the inn for the night, I’m sure.” The driver hoisted her trunk onto his shoulder and began making his way toward the inn’s door without waiting for her.

  She bit her lip against both her sharp disappointment and the dull aches in her body. Gingerly lifting her skirts a few inches above the mud, she hurried after the driver. He’d already entered the inn by the time she reached the door.

  Lantern light made her squint as she stepped inside. The few patrons in the inn’s common room fell silent, turning to her with assessing eyes. The driver was just setting down her trunk next to a high counter behind which a man, presumably the innkeeper, stood wiping a mug.

  “The lass is headed to the castle,” he said, jerking his thumb back at her without looking.

  “Another one?” the innkeeper muttered, fixing her with a scrutinizing stare.

  A few of the others in the inn’s main room began to murmur, still watching her.

  Thea swallowed but straightened her spine and stepped before the innkeeper. “I am Miss Reynolds, here to serve as governess to the Earl of Kinfallon’s sister.”

  The muttering around her rose. She caught the words “madwoman in the tower” passing between two men at a nearby table.

  “Governess?” The innkeeper snorted. “I dinnae ken what the earl’s sister needs a governess for, but that is none of my business. Ye are welcome to stay for the night, lass. Tam here will no doubt be able to get ye up to the castle tomorrow morning.” He nodded toward the driver.

  Uncertainty niggled at her. The inn was clean and safe enough, but she’d spent the last fortnight on the road, rattling around in coaches by day and sleeping in a different inn each night. She hadn’t realized just how eager she was to reach her post until now. She longed to get settled, to ease the aches and bruises with a bath, to meet her new charge—and her mysterious employer.

  “How far is the castle?” she asked.

  The innkeeper looked at her quizzically. “Only a few miles up the road,” he said, waving vaguely with the rag in his hand.

  That decided it. A walk and some fresh air would do her good after being cooped up in coaches for the last fortnight. Besides, it might help her clear her head and settle her stomach after the rough ride today.

  “If you’re able to keep my trunk for the night, I’ll walk,” she said.

  Now both the innkeeper and the driver were giving her skeptical stares.

  “I’ll be grateful for the air and exercise,” she went on, growing uneasy under their looks. “And I’ll send for the trunk first thing tomorrow.”

  “Are ye sure, miss?” the driver asked.

  Resolved, she nodded. “Yes, very. Thank you both for your assistance.”

  Before their puzzled gazes could make her question her decision, she tilted her head and turned to leave.

  Outside, she pulled her cloak closed at the front against the cold fog. Though narrow and pocked with holes, the road was easy enough to make out. She knew which way they’d come, so she continued on as it wound away from the little inn.

  Thea swung her gaze as she walked, for her modest bonnet cut off her peripheral vision. There wasn’t much to see, though. A few huts emerged from the mist closer to the inn, but within moments, they fell away, leaving only the darkening trees and the muddy path ahead.

  Soon the road grew narrower—and steep. She understood now why the driver hadn’t wanted to risk this trek. Sharp turns materialized from the fog only a few feet in front of her. The path was not only rutted and holey from the rain, but occasionally a large rock or even a tree branch lay across the way. She picked her footing carefully, her breath growing short as she ascended.

  Perhaps she’d been rash to leave the inn and make her way on foot to the earl’s castle. This was no stroll through the English countryside, after all. Night was falling swiftly, making the gloomy fog all the more difficult to navigate. Yes, her limbs relished the exertion, but her head still throbbed faintly where she’d hit it against the coach’s wall. Her cloak had already grown heavy with the cold mist, and her boots—her only pair—were now caked with mud.

  A noise in the distance made her still, her breath puffing white in front of her. She strained to hear over the hammering of her own heart. Had that been a branch snapping? The fog muted the sound, making her uncertain where the noise had come from.

  Sil
ly, she chided herself. Now was no time for gothic fancies. Thea prided herself on being practical—and strong, though she knew she didn’t look it to others. She was petite, true, but there were many different kinds of strength. It was not in her nature to be caught in a mental flight of over-imagination.

  She trudged on, but another noise made her freeze a moment later. A low rumbling—no, not so much a noise as a feeling. The ground vibrated beneath her boots.

  Thea whirled just in time to see an enormous horse emerge from the mist directly behind her—an enormous horse bearing a kilted rider on its back.

  Panic spiked hard in her stomach. They were barreling toward her at a gallop. The few meager feet separating them were being eaten away by the horse’s powerful hooves even as she stood frozen with shock.

  A scream rose in her throat. She couldn’t seem to move fast enough—as if her limbs were suspended in molasses.

  The rider at last seemed to notice her. “Whoa!” He yanked hard on the reins, making the horse skid in the mud. The animal reared wildly, whinnying in fright.