Carols and Chaos

by Cindy Anstey

  Well, that had been the intent.

  When her eyes met Miss Emily’s staring back at her, it was not from underneath a pretty dust of hair … for, in fact, Kate had not tucked in the ends of Miss Emily’s upsweep. It looked like she had a mop … or a thatch of straw sitting on her crown. The style was not elegant in the least; it could not be considered anything other than clownish.

  “Oh, oh dear,” Kate said, immediately pulling out the pins she had just fixed into place … the wrong place. “I am so terribly…” She began to apologize and then noticed Miss Emily’s shoulders were shaking and that she was trying desperately not to laugh.

  But it was no good.

  Miss Imogene, sitting on the window seat waiting her turn, was having a hard time staying where she was—laughing so hard that she was near to tumbling from the bench. Miss Emily tried valiantly not to join her friend in her fit of hilarity; Kate could hear Miss Emily gulping at the air and snorting in a Herculean effort to contain her mirth. But eventually, she needed to breathe, and when she did, laughter burst from her. She laughed so hard that the rest of her hair tumbled down her back and she had to hold her sides against a stitch.

  Kate waited. She scratched her chin, tidied her pins, shifted her comb, sighed several times in succession, and then waited some more. Just as it would seem that their humor was spent, Miss Emily giggled; caught again, Miss Imogene burst into laughter, and then, of course, Miss Emily did likewise. It was a vicious circle, one calming only to be brought back to gleeful hysterics by the other. It continued forever … a good five minutes.

  “What, pray tell, has you so distracted, Kate? Would it happen to be a handsome valet?” Miss Imogene eventually asked between gulps of air.

  “No, indeed,” Kate answered, unreasonably upset by their laughter. They were not to know. “A handsome footman.”

  Miss Emily’s bright smile froze in the mirror. “Footman? I thought that you were … partial to Mr. Harlow.”

  “It has nothing to do with being partial to anyone, Miss Emily. I am concerned, terribly concerned about Johnny Grinstead, the Steeple footman. He has disappeared.”

  Miss Emily’s eyes grew wide, her smile faded away, and her cheeks reddened. “Disappeared?”

  “Yes,” Kate said, then explained Johnny’s story. “And so now we wait,” she concluded. “We wait for Johnny to return or for your guests to arrive.”

  “But they are not due until midafternoon.” Miss Emily frowned, clearly no more comfortable with the delay than was Kate. “Who decided that waiting was the wisest choice? Never mind, it is irrelevant. I will speak to Papa. We need to see Squire Fleming right away. It’s already been…”

  “Two days,” Kate supplied.

  “Indeed, two days. Far too long.” With a nod of finality, Miss Emily straightened her shoulders. “Don’t concern yourself with the fancy upsweep for now, Kate. A simple style will be faster; we will have more time this afternoon … I hope.”

  Kate nodded, setting to work. Her fingers were faster and deft. Nothing had been resolved, but the dilemma was now in the right hands—the girls’—and Kate felt immensely relieved.

  * * *

  WALKING DOWN THE hallway, her arms lost under swaths of soft mauve and light blue cloth, Kate carried the chosen dinner gowns toward the service door, heading for the laundry house that sat on the other side of the inner yard. She needed to press the ruffled hem of the mauve gown and the elbows of the blue one. Quickly approaching footsteps forced Kate to shift closer to the wall.

  Bernie rushed past her. “Off to the squire’s place with a message,” he said with a jaunty smile of self-importance over his shoulder. He had his coat and mitts on and was tucking a sealed letter into his coat as he pushed through the door. It slammed shut behind him.

  Sighing, Kate juggled her load without allowing the gowns to drag on the floor and tried to open the door, but the handle would not turn. She tried several times until the blue gown started to slip and she had to let go in order to save it from a spill. As soon as she did, the handle turned of its own volition and the door flew open. A figure stood on the other side, looking as surprised to see Kate as she was to see him.

  “I believe we were trying to open the door at the same time, Mr. Niven,” Kate said to the tall, gray-haired wine merchant with a chuckle.

  “I believe you are right, Miss Darby,” Mr. Niven said with a smile that only quirked up one side of his mouth. He was a stoic-looking man in his later years, perhaps as old as five and forty, with a somewhat nasal tone to his voice. He dressed well, with a finely cut waistcoat of vermilion and an unusual black neckcloth; his coat was tailored.

  She could see a wagon through the doorway; it was pulled into the yard and in need of unloading. “I’m surprised you are doing your own deliveries, Mr. Niven. I heard you had taken on a delivery boy.”

  “I do not trust anyone with my best customers, my dear. Personal service. Always.” He stood a little straighter, looking down his nose at her. “What would the Beeswangers think otherwise?”

  Kate smiled; she was fairly certain that the Beeswangers were unaware that Mr. Niven delivered their wine himself. “Would you like me to find Walker for you, sir?”

  “No, no, no need. I shall have your footmen assist. I’m sure Walker has better things to do than see to the wine.” There was a mocking ring to his words; seeing to the wine was an important aspect of a butler’s job.

  “I’m afraid you will only have the help of one footman today, Mr. Niven. Bernie has just left to deliver a message.”

  “Oh yes, I did see a young man rush by; startled my horse, in fact.”

  “Did he?” The load of gowns was starting to feel a trifle heavy, and Kate edged to the side of the narrow hallway, hoping Mr. Niven would enter and allow her past. “That’s a shame. Well, I must away. I’m off to the laundry house.” It was patently obvious, but since Mr. Niven did not seem inclined to move, she did not mind pointing out the patently obvious; she was more worried about her tired arms letting go of the gowns than insulting the wine merchant.

  “Where was he going in his rush?” Mr. Niven lowered his head so that he was looking at Kate from a slightly bowed position … a subservient position. One could only assume it was due to habit, from when he served in the army perhaps, but it was a habit that did not sit well with Kate Darby. A raised brow on her part encouraged the man to straighten immediately. “I only ask because of the young man … the one you came to my door about yesterday.” He lifted one shoulder when she frowned and replied to her unasked question. “Neighbors said you had come around and why. Have you found him? The young man?”

  “No, not as of yet.” She shifted again, but Mr. Niven was treating her to a lovely chat as if it were Yuletide and they had to do the niceties … oh, but yes, it was the season of benevolence and charity. Kate hid her impatience, offered a broad, though feigned, smile and an excuse … er, reason for her departure. “I must away, Mr. Niven. The Beeswangers are to be honored with a visit this afternoon from Lord Bobbington and his wife, and I must assist the girls. Please. Excuse me.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Niven started as if just seeing the gowns in her arms. “Here, let me help.” And with that, he stepped out of the way.

  “Charles is in the servants’ hall, I believe,” Kate said as she strode into the cold—there was a decided cut to the breeze. She shivered as she hurried across the yard into the steaming heat of the laundry house and tried not to think of how long she must wait before learning if Squire Fleming knew how to set about finding Johnny.

  * * *

  AT LAST, MATT was called to the study. He had paced his small bedroom a thousand times—well, at least ten or twenty, upon hearing of Squire Fleming’s arrival at the behest of Mr. Beeswanger. He had been helping Mr. Ben with the last of his ablutions when Bernie had knocked on the chamber door and asked for the young gentleman’s presence. Mr. Ernest had stuck his head across the threshold and offered to go ahead.

  Matt rushed Mr. Ben
into his stylish gray coat, smoothing it over his silver threaded waistcoat and dove-gray buckskins, buffed a slight mark from the toe of his right Hessian, and sent him in his brother’s wake within ten or so minutes. Quite the feat!

  And then Matt had to wait. He was certain that the squire was here about Johnny … hoped it meant that the search was on, not that he had been found in an injured state.

  With a gulp, Matt tugged at his own more understated and considerably less expensive waistcoat, verified that his boots were mirror shiny, and joined Bernie in the hallway when he had knocked a second time. Matt glanced down the corridor, hoping for a glimpse of Kate’s calming countenance, but he was not rewarded. Bernie left him at the bottom of the stairs; Matt could find his way.

  He rapped smartly on the study door and was bid to enter.

  Happily, the room was generous in size, being that it already housed five souls. It had the aspect of a library: dark book-filled shelves lined three walls, in front of which an inlaid Georgian desk sat catercorner from the door. The fourth wall offered a large carved chimneypiece and the warmth of a glowing fire. In front of it, a group of wingback chairs provided comfort for the Steeple brothers, Mr. Beeswanger, and an older, bespectacled gentleman with muttonchop whiskers and deep-set eyes. He stared at Matt without expression.

  Matt stared back, unsure of the protocol.

  “Ah, there you are, Matt,” Mr. Ernest said, as Mr. Beeswanger would have had no right to summon Matt to the study. “I have been informing Lord Bobbington of Johnny’s situation and he has a few questions for you.”

  Matt glanced at the seated old gentleman, but he had turned toward a tall figure in his early twenties standing beside the mantel.

  “Yes, indeed,” the sandy-haired gentleman said as he stepped closer; he had a round face and a cleft in his chin. “I am very curious about that coin your friend was given.”

  With a frown, Matt nodded. “The coin, my lord?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Lord Bobbington said with a great smile and an echoing nod. “Did you see it? What was the color of the metal plug? Where there any strange markings on it?”

  Matt continued to frown. “The coin … Well, I don’t rightly remember. But I…” He patted at his coat. He had dropped the offending object in his pocket when Johnny had tried to pitch it into the yard, and then forgotten about it. “I have it somewhere…” His fingers touched cold metal in his right coat pocket. “Ah, there,” he said, offering it to Lord Bobbington.

  The gentleman took it gingerly, as if it were precious, not a worthless and troublesome item. He turned it back and forth, his nose getting closer and closer, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out a magnifying lens. He carried both to the window, where he stood for several minutes. The fire crackled, the clock ticked, and all were silent, waiting for some sort of pronouncement.

  Matt wanted to talk about Johnny, ask what they were going to do to find him, tell them that he had been seen last at the Gambling Goat … and yet all faces were turned to the window, watching the silhouette of a man studying a fake coin.

  “Aha! Yes, it is the same.” Lord Bobbington turned toward the room, not in the least startled that he had everyone’s undivided attention. “The same flaw as the coins in Canterbury.” He marched over to the squire. “Look at that,” he said as he passed over the coin and magnifying lens. “Just under the figure, an irregular join—likely from the mold.” He rounded on Matt. “Tell me, Mr. Harlow, what can you say about the man Johnny met?”

  “The man?”

  “Yes, the red-haired man who gave your friend Johnny this coin—used it to pay for his … his…”

  “His ring, my lord.” Matt swallowed in grave discomfort; this was not going as he’d hoped. “Should we not be discussing Johnny? Where he might be?”

  Lord Bobbington blinked at Matt for some moments, looked over at Mr. Ben and then back at Matt. “But we…”

  “Matt has only just arrived, Lord Bobbington. He was not privy to our discussion about Mr. Coombs,” Mr. Ben explained.

  “Oh, oh, indeed. I apologize, Mr. Harlow. No wonder you look anxious.”

  Matt bristled. He did not look anxious—he was anxious, but he certainly did not look it. He was quite adept at keeping his feelings in check; he had been practicing for months—

  “Squire Fleming is going to have Mr. Coombs, Tishdale’s night watchman, look into Johnny’s whereabouts.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the older gentleman. “Though he has told me that there is nothing to worry about.”

  “It’s been my experience that those who disappear do so by choice,” the squire said, returning the fake coin to Lord Bobbington. “Still, I’ll get Mr. Coombs to do a look-see, talk to a few people. He’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “He was last seen at the—”

  “Yes, yes, we know. The Gambling Goat.” Squire Fleming huffed and settled back in his chair, clearly finished with the conversation.

  “This is most opportune, Mr. Harlow,” Lord Bobbington said to regain Matt’s attention. “I’m on my way to Canterbury, you see. The Home Office has sent me to investigate the sudden flood of counterfeit coins. But there are so many avenues to follow there, it will be hard to trace all the different paths … especially in a city. However, here … well, we have one coin and a red-haired man. Let’s find out where that man got his coin. You can see how finding him is of the utmost importance. National importance,” he said, standing a little straighter.

  “Indeed,” Matt said, but only to be agreeable. His mind was still recoiling from the idea that Johnny had disappeared by choice. He would not do that—he would not leave Matt in the lurch. Johnny would expect Matt to be concerned. Granted, they were closer to London, but only marginally, not enough to jump ship. No, Johnny had not disappeared of his own volition.

  “Was there more?”

  Matt blinked, realizing that he had been staring at a spot on the wall and that the conversation had continued. “More?”

  “Yes, did Johnny describe more fully the man who gave him the coin?”

  “No.” Matt tried valiantly not to glare. “Just that there was something of the butcher, Mr. Kelp, in his looks … but it might simply have been the man’s red hair. I really don’t know.” He turned to address Squire Fleming again. “Johnny didn’t say anything about wanting to be elsewhere. He didn’t take his belongings. He disappeared after the market, not in the middle of the night. I would have known if he had any such thoughts.”

  Squire Fleming shrugged. “Yes, that’s what most say. He’s likely hoping to find a better position.”

  “But he would need a character, if that was his intent, and some money … He was tapped out and in livery. His button was covered in blood—”

  “If it was his.”

  “Yes, true. But most of us here…” Matt glanced first at Mr. Ben and then at Mr. Ernest. “We believe that button to depict the Steeple crest. The green material matches the color of his coat; if that is the case, then why was it covered in blood? None of it says that he purposefully disappeared.”

  “We will see, Mr. Harlow.” The good squire stifled a yawn. “Mr. Coombs will let us know.”

  Matt prayed that Mr. Coombs had a better understanding of the life of a footman than Squire Fleming seemed to have.

  * * *

  THE DAY PROVED to be every bit as hectic and busy as Kate had expected. So much so, that after having helped the girls prepare for bed, Kate was tired, bordering on exhausted, but edgy enough that she knew sleep would be elusive. So rather than tuck in and then lie awake wishing for sweet oblivion, Kate headed downstairs, where she could warm a brick in the oven. It would provide soothing heat in her bed—a rare commodity at this time of year.

  The kitchen was cavernous when it was not filled with the hustle and bustle of meal preparation and maids rushing hither and yon. There was no sign of Cook … nor anyone else, for that matter, just the clink and splash of someone in the scullery—Livy, without a doubt—cle
aning up the last of the plates and glasses from dinner. That Livy was still washing, this many hours after dinner, was a testament to the quantity the girl had had to deal with.

  Kate smiled to herself as she wrapped a brick and then placed it in the oven to absorb the last of its heat. The misses had returned to their rooms after their exciting evening with Lord and Lady Bobbington and Squire Fleming. And while most of their discourse revolved around their very favorable impression of Lady Bobbington, somewhere in their euphoria, Miss Emily made mention of Mr. Coombs and the search for Johnny.

  Kate was relieved in the extreme to know that someone was now looking for the footman. To know that Matt and she were no longer alone, that help had arrived and soon Johnny would walk through the door, was a salve to her frazzled mind. She wished she could have assured Matt as they sat at supper, but the table was noisy and the meal was rushed. It was over, and Matt was gone with no more than a few glances, certainly no opportunity to discuss Johnny’s disappearance.

  “Who’s there?” Livy asked in a quavering voice.

  “Sorry, Livy. I should have told you I was here. Not to worry, I’m only heating a brick for my bed. Do you want me to do one up for you, too?” Kate remembered her days in the scullery bed all too well; the draft under the door often brought snow with it.

  “Would you, miss? That would be ever so kind.”

  Kate smiled and wrapped another brick—the last of what was usually a pile—and placed it in the oven. Dragging a chair close to the fading embers of the fireplace, Kate felt a welcome sense of weariness. The click of Livy’s work offered a rhythmic pattern that lulled her further into that lovely state when tired becomes sleepy. Her eyes were closed when she heard a scrape across the floor, and glanced over to find Livy seated beside her, head resting on the back of her chair.

  “I have a liniment that might help,” Kate said, pointing with her chin at Livy’s chapped, red hands.