by Cindy Anstey
The shop and all its wares were sold after Papa’s death. Papa’s sister, Aunt Doris, claimed the money and Matt, and brought him to live with her, her six children, and Uncle Reg in the fishing village of Worlop. Again Matt was without motherly company, as Uncle Reg kept him busy on the boat; Matt was obligated to work from before sunrise until after sundown repairing nets, laying line, and hauling up fish. Matt knew it was not the life for him before a week had passed, but it took him three weeks to build up the courage to say so.
Uncle Reg and Aunt Doris had scoffed at his idea of a position at Musson House, accused him of giving himself airs. But Matt proved them wrong; he walked up to the manor on a Thursday—the Steeples always went into town on Thursdays—and waited in the shadows until the good man came out with Lady Margaret. Sir Andrew remembered him very well and immediately took him on as a boot boy. Within two years he was a footman, and then last year, when Mr. Ernest and Mr. Ben were going into London for the Season, Matt’s knowledge of tailoring secured him the prestigious position of valet. His papa would be proud … Perhaps his mother might be, too, but … well, he knew little of mothers.
Which brought him back full circle; Matt didn’t know what to make of Mrs. Darby or how she affected Kate. Although the good woman did seem, perhaps, somewhat … well, odd.
It was at this juncture that Matt heard a sound, a lithe skipping sort of step that seemed to be approaching. He was suddenly alert, tipping his head toward the door in order to hear better.
“Mr. Harlow?” Kate called.
Matt was at his door immediately, though he pushed it open slowly, casually. “Yes, Miss Darby?”
“Oh, I am so pleased to know that I guessed right. I thought you might be anticipating the arrival of Mr. Ben, and I know your window to be facing the back garden.” She paused as if waiting for a reaction.
Matt nodded, looking into her lovely brown eyes, wondering why he would describe them as full of merriment, sparkling even, when in truth they were normal eyes. He noted, too, that his heart hammered against his chest, and he felt inclined, very inclined, to step closer. He had enjoyed a flirtation or two—appreciating light banter and stolen kisses—but nothing had truly engaged his heart. Other than dreaming about his own tailor shop, nothing had filled him with eager anticipation … until now.
Still, Matt remained at a respectful distance, though he did lean slightly forward, and observed that Kate did as well.
“Mr. Ben has just arrived. Miss Imogene is with him in the drawing room at present, but I imagine you will see him fairly soon as he didn’t hire a carriage—apparently they are hard to come by at this time of year—and as a result he is thoroughly rumpled.” Kate smiled in such a manner that Matt was certain the description was not hers.
“Excellent, Miss Darby—”
“Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Harlow, but I was wondering if you would be comfortable dispensing with some formality in regard to address? Perhaps when no one else is about?”
“Are you suggesting … that we use first names, Miss Darby?”
“I am, indeed. However, I understand if you prefer—”
This time Matt interrupted. “I think it a fine suggestion, Kate, for I will admit that I think of you as such already.”
“Do you?” Kate lifted an eyebrow at him and tilted her head slightly. Then she grinned, and Matt found that he could not look away from her mouth, her lips and the way they curved up to form a bright smile. “Matt?”
“Umm. Yes?” Matt lifted his gaze back to those sparkling eyes. “Yes, Kate?”
“You were going to say something in regard to Mr. Ben’s arrival.”
“Oh. Oh Lud! Yes, I was going to thank you for your trouble and set to work … So, thank you for—”
“My trouble?”
“Yes, exactly. But now I must—”
“Set to work?”
Matt chuckled. “Indeed.” And so saying, he stepped into the corridor with her and closed his bedroom door. It blended into the wall panel once again.
“I’ll show you the way,” Kate offered, crooking her elbow in his arm.
They walked six steps and then stopped in front of the next door.
“Thank you for the escort, Kate. I would have been entirely lost without your help…,” Matt began but turned at the sound of footsteps.
Even though the echo emanated from the back stairs, Kate immediately dropped his arm, nodded, and then scooted back down the hallway. Bernie—or was it Charles?—entered the corridor with several satchels in arm and turned toward Matt, missing the retreating figure behind him.
The footman passed Matt, depositing Mr. Ben’s bags in his room with only a brief comment about Cook baking Christmas pudding—the mouthwatering smell was wafting through the house—before leaving Matt to his work and thoughts.
* * *
“DEPLORABLE ROADS.” Mr. Ben laughed when Matt greeted him with raised brows. “Not really my fault.” The tall, young gentleman was covered in mud splatters. It was even encrusted in his dark brown hair and smeared across his chin. He did not look suitable for company.
“Are you certain you did not ride cross-country?” Matt asked, helping Mr. Ben out of his coat and placing it gingerly across the back of a chair, trying not to knock off the mud until he could get the thing out of doors.
Mr. Ben laughed again. “Well, perhaps I took one or two fields when the road veered out of the way. I did want to get here as quickly as possible. I was meant to be here Saturday. The delay was most irritating and entirely unnecessary. I’m sure you understand.”
Matt did understand; there was no bigger draw than anticipating the company of one’s fiancée. But to sacrifice a coat to secure an extra hour—well, that might be going a bit far … But then he thought of Kate and decided that the coat would be fine.
“Miss Chively did not say what caused your delay.”
“No, I’m certain she did not. Miss Chively likely did not want to besmirch the good name of Theodore Perkins, but I have no such qualm, as his stupidity cost me precious hours—forty-eight hours that could have been spent with my dear Miss Chively. I was, instead, required to clear the buffoon’s name. If my mentor had not asked it of me, I would not have gone in search of a magistrate. Perkins got himself into the fool’s basket; he ought to have got himself out.”
Matt merely nodded, more confused than ever.
“I would have checked. Would you not have done likewise?” Mr. Ben continued his enigmatic conversation.
“I might have … if I knew what I was checking?”
The young gentleman paused as Matt passed him a tepid pitcher of water. Burbling, splashing, and huffing replaced words for several minutes, and then he continued.
“The carver—he was working on a chimneypiece for one of the houses we have been redesigning—well, the man accused Perkins of cheating him and thereby sullying Lord Penton’s good name. Perkins is, after all, one of the apprentices. Can you imagine? A simple job; all Perkins had to do was pay the man. Trying to settle up before Christmas—with fake coins.”
“What?” Matt stopped and blinked. This was not good. The authorities took counterfeits quite seriously. It was at best a transporting offense, at worst a hanging. “He hadn’t minted them, had he? The coins?”
“No,” Mr. Ben said with a sigh. “No. Got them in exchange somewhere along the way and did not check. Who doesn’t scrape at the silver or try to bend a coin that’s been tossed to you? Even a babe would check!” He shook his head as Matt offered him the least wrinkled waistcoat he could find in Mr. Ben’s luggage. It was a sturdy gray twill.
“Is the yellow silk, cut with a sapphire stripe, not in good shape?”
Matt held up a sorry rag of wrinkles, usually called a yellow waistcoat. “I can return it to its former glory, Mr. Ben, but it will take a fair amount of time and pressing.”
“Hmmm, yes, that might not have been folded properly.”
“No,” Matt said icily, consigning whoever had done Mr
. Ben’s packing to the fiery pits of the underworld—until he saw Mr. Ben’s sheepish grin and realized that the young gentleman was the guilty party. “You might think of hiring yourself a valet, Mr. Ben. Your clothes will be all the happier for the intervention.”
The chuckle and smile Mr. Ben offered Matt did not make him feel any more kindly disposed, whatsoever.
“Naturally, the magistrate,” Mr. Ben continued his story, “saw the right of it. Cleared Perkins’s name and, more important, Lord Penton’s reputation. The fine old gentleman could have been brought up on charges, too, being that he houses and trains Perkins … as he does me. Really, what a mess that would have been!”
“Indeed,” Matt said, barely heeding the cause of all the huffing and puffing. He had other concerns—grave concerns—having just pulled off Mr. Ben’s mud-caked riding boots, and was fighting the urge to groan. With a noble effort, he changed the sound into a sigh and turned to pull a pair of Hessians from the larger of the satchels deposited by the bed.
Shoving his feet into the boots with undue haste, Mr. Ben stood and glanced in the looking glass. He pulled down the corners of his waistcoat, checked the length of his watch fob and straightened his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Matt, I’ll be back to change for dinner. You can do me up proud then.” And so saying, the young gentleman quit the room, looking far from the perfection Matt had envisioned a mere twenty minutes earlier.
* * *
KATE STARED INTO the wardrobe, her hand touching the soft silk of Miss Imogene’s lilac dinner gown, lost in thought. In her mind she returned to the hallway and her short conversation with Matt. She allowed excitement free rein for a few moments before frowning and shaking her head.
What was she thinking? What was she doing? She should never have suggested that they call each other by their first names. It was offering an intimacy that could never be realized. Impetuous, yet again. When would she learn to think before she acted? Really!
Footsteps, mere footsteps echoing up the back stairs had shouted a warning and brought with it a flood of anxiety and guilt. Matt and she might have been discovered having a conversation in a deserted hallway. Heavens!
Kate was certain that the clicking heels on the wooden treads were those of Bernie or Charles. Neither of the footmen was a threat to her position, but gossip most definitely was. And a lady’s maid’s conduct had to be beyond reproach. She had direct access to the family; she had private knowledge. She should not, could not, be caught flirting with a handsome valet in a quiet corridor … no matter how much she was taken with him.
And she did fancy him.
In all her eighteen years, she had yet to encounter a young man who made her want to bask in his presence. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel the press of his lips on hers, to—
“Oh, excellent. I’m so glad you are here,” Miss Imogene said as she rushed into the room closing the door behind her—well, behind Jasper, who followed at her heels.
Kate grimaced. One look at Miss Imogene’s dress made it clear why the young lady would seek assistance in the middle of the day. The bottom of her lovely cream gown was flounced with lace, ribbon, and muddy paw prints.
“Jasper was very enthused to see Ben,” Miss Imogene said, as she grinned at the St. John’s water dog. “Weren’t we all!” She sighed and then turned back toward Kate. “But he was covered in mud, and Jasper, in his excitement, transferred some of the muck to me. I hope you can get it out.”
“Not a problem, miss. I’ll let it dry and try brushing it first.” Kate smiled as Miss Imogene reached behind her back, trying pointlessly to undo her buttons.
Without saying anything, Kate turned Miss Imogene around, untied her waist ribbon, and then set to work on the twenty or so pearl buttons running down the young lady’s back.
Soon the soiled dress was in a puddle on the floor and a fresh gown—light blue with a square neck and puff sleeves—was partially on. “It must have been grand to see Mr. Ben again,” Kate said more as a statement than a query. She could tell Miss Imogene was all atwitter as she readied the sleeves for the young lady to slip on.
“Grand isn’t the half of it.”
A quick knock on the door interrupted their proceedings and Miss Emily slipped into the room. “Oh, Kate, I might have known you would come to Imogene’s rescue. I thought I might help, but I see that I am not needed.”
“You are always needed,” Miss Imogene corrected her friend with a broad smile. “Are they here yet? Do I have to hurry?”
With a frown, Kate lifted her eyes to meet Miss Imogene’s in the looking glass. “They?”
Had Kate missed a conversation? The rest of the Steeples were due to arrive the day after tomorrow. Who was coming today? Mr. and Mrs. Chively? Were Miss Imogene’s parents coming to visit? Miss Imogene had not seen them since September because of an estrangement. Were they finally going to let bygones be bygones? Christmas was a perfect time to mend fences.
“Yes,” Miss Imogene said, not knowing where Kate’s thoughts had taken her. “I am quite looking forward to the occasion. There was no ceremony at Gracebridge Manor when the Yule log was brought in—no choosing, no celebration. Father was … is not a great believer in merriment.”
Ah yes, the Yule log. Kate had quite forgotten—distracted as she had been.
“But this year is different,” Miss Emily said, giving her friend a quick squeeze, interfering briefly with the donning of the new gown. She walked over to the window, leaning into the glass. “Not here yet,” she said as she squinted up the drive. “The tenant farmers usually bring them right to the front door. Farmer Tanner’s log will be declared the best; it’s his turn this year—although they will make a show of trying to decide which one is best suited to stay lit all Christmas Day.”
“And smolder until Twelfth Night—that is the tricky part,” Kate added. It was an important tradition that brought prosperity and protected the house from evil. She smiled. At least, that was what Mrs. Lundy had said when she had announced the coming of the logs at breakfast.
“Oh … oh, I think I see something.” Miss Emily pushed her brown curls away from her face, trying to see farther. “Yes, they are coming. One, two, and yes, there is the third team.” She turned back to the room. “Are you ready?”
“Done,” Kate answered as she stepped away from Miss Imogene, hands raised.
“Thank you, Kate. You are a marvel.” Miss Imogene giggled with excitement.
“Shawls,” Kate called as the girls hurried to the door. She grabbed not one but two from a chest of drawers.
Miss Imogene skipped across the floor and pulled out a third. “Here, Kate. Come with us.”
Kate started and then took the offered shawl with a grin. She had planned to run to her room for her cloak; now there was no need. She wouldn’t miss any of the merriment.
By the time they arrived at the front of the manor, Walker was ushering the family out the wide, arched door. He glared at Kate as she slipped through with them, but she ignored the butler as best she could … Well, actually she offered him a one-shouldered shrug and brazenly tendered her thanks. His curled lip spoke of how much he appreciated her efforts.
Outside, three broad-shouldered, substantial men had pulled their teams into a line, dragging the potential Yule logs in as close as possible while leaving room for the family and the staff. Given the crowding, it would seem that everyone was eager to witness one of the first ceremonies of the season.
Mr. and Mrs. Beeswanger initially greeted Farmer Gibbs, as he had won the previous year. Then proceeded to shake hands with Farmer Rundell and, finally, Farmer Tanner. They circled behind the teams of horses, nodding to the laborers and looking thoroughly engrossed in the enterprise. The bark was examined, knuckles rapped against the wood, and Mr. Beeswanger took a deep sniff. Though what the gentleman could learn from such procedures was a mystery to Kate; she thought it had more to do with theatrics and custom.
Kate joined Marie, shuffling aside to allow the fa
mily room to participate. Mr. Ben, looking devoid of mud, made his way directly to Miss Imogene.
“I wish Ernest were here to see this,” he said as they paraded forward to join in the all-important discussion about which log would burn the longest.
Kate glanced around, looking for a tall, handsome valet, and tried not to huff her disappointment too loudly when she could not spot Matt.
“Marie…?” Kate began, turning her head toward her friend as she spoke. She didn’t finish her question; Matt had slipped in beside them. He made a show of being surprised to see her.
“Yes?” Marie said, not really paying mind; her gaze was focused on Mrs. Lundy, who stood nearby with a tray of oil, salt, and wine. They would be used to anoint the chosen log before it was unhitched and the farmhands carried it into the manor. While coal was used to heat the rest of the Park, the large hearth in the grand hall entrance had been built for this express purpose. Mrs. Beeswanger said that sentiment and prudence insisted on a place suitable for the luck-bearing Yule log. An instrument that consumed mistakes and bad choices could not be overlooked.
Then, finally, it was declared. Farmer Tanner’s log looked to be the best candidate to be lit Christmas Eve by a remnant of last year’s log and last until the end of Christmas Day. It might even smolder until Twelfth Night and offer them all great fortune.
With a pat on the back, the company congratulated Farmer Tanner, and Mrs. Beeswanger anointed the log. Bernie and Charles carried out a wassail bowl to be served to everyone present. Each member of the family offered a toast to the log, the season, the future, and the company—including Miss Imogene and Mr. Ben. There were peals of laughter, loud voices, and even a chorus of “Here We Come a-Wassailing.” Just before the nip in the air sent all inside to the warmth, Cook arrived with baskets of goodies for all three farmers to share with their families and laborers.
“Puts our Yule log ceremony to great shame,” Matt said to Kate through the noise of the gathering. “At Musson House, Sir Andrew offers a prayer but not much else.”