Biltmore Christmas

by Diane T. Ashley

  “You ought to tell her that, not me.”

  “I plan to as soon as I check my vehicle.”

  “I guess you can see it.” The young man watched him for a minute more, then shrugged and moved out of the way. “But it would be in a lot better shape if you hadn’t told Melissa to stay away from it. She nearly had it running before she went to the hospital to check on you. After that, she hasn’t touched it at all.”

  Ned left the girl’s defender behind as he stepped into the stall and began examining his vehicle. He winced at the scrapes and scratches along its side, but he knew those could be remedied and would not affect the operation of his horseless carriage. He dropped to his knees and pushed against the cylinder with one hand. It seemed unharmed, but hewouldn’t know for sure until he could take it apart and check its operation. He pushed himself up.

  The stable hand was waiting for him. “Well?”

  Ned reached for a rag lying across the top of the windshield. “It looks okay, but I need some gasoline to see if I can crank it.”

  “If it runs at all, the credit goes to Melissa. She gave up two nights of sleep to work on your contraption.”

  Ned’s sigh was resigned. He knew Melissa’s champion had a point, but he had other matters to consider. “And I’ll be certain to thank her. You have my word on that.” He stuck out his right hand.

  The stable hand looked surprised at the gesture but grabbed his hand after a brief hesitation and shook it firmly. “Good.”

  Ned left the stable wondering if he would ever break through the fellow’s distrust and suspicion. He hoped so. He had the feeling he was going to need all the allies he could muster to succeed.

  Checking his hands for any sign of grease or dirt, he strode to the front door of the main house with more confidence than he felt. A black-suited butler answered his knock and accepted his card after ushering him into the entrance hall. The proper servant disappeared, leaving Ned to wait.

  Light flooded into a winter garden from arched windows, making him feel he had entered a tropical retreat. At the center of the large glass-roofed room was an exquisite fountain topped by a statue of a boy feeding several geese. The whimsical sculpture brought a smile to Ned’s face. Hestepped down into the garden room, marveling at the towering palm trees and green plants.

  “Mr. Robinson.”

  Ned started at the sound of his name and turned to see the butler standing beneath one of the arched entrances to the garden.

  “Mr. Vanderbilt is entertaining guests in the billiards room, but he will take a few moments to meet with you, since you have come such a long distance.” The butler waited for him to retrace his steps to the entrance hall before leading the way around the sides of the winter garden to the billiards room.

  As the door opened, Ned heard the distinctive clack of ball striking ball. Several men stood around holding long, smooth cue sticks or bending over one of the two tables in the room.

  Which of these gentlemen was the host? The tall, boisterous blond man in the far corner who was congratulating one of the players? Or was he the one leaning over a table, lining up his cue with a ball before making a play?

  In the far corner of the room, a man sat next to a table, a book in his hand. When Ned stepped into the room, he put his book facedown on the table and rose. “Good morning, Mr. Robinson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Ned took the man’s hand in his own and shook it. George Vanderbilt’s hair was as black as his and matched his thick brows and mustache. His eyes were also dark, almost black, and bright with intelligence. Ned liked him instantly. “Mr. Vanderbilt. The pleasure is mine.”

  His host indicated the table where he’d been sitting. “I hope you will excuse me for not meeting with you in my study, but as you can see, these fellows need a chaperone.”

  The other men in the room laughed. Mr. Vanderbilt introduced him around, but Ned could not have remembered a single name if his life depended upon it. He was much too concerned about winning Mr. Vanderbilt’s approval of his plans.

  Once the other guests returned to their games, his host sat and indicated the chair on the far side of the table. “Now tell me why you’ve come all the way from New York to meet me, Mr. Robinson.”

  This was it. The moment he’d been working toward for nearly two months. His mouth was as dry as a desert. He cleared his throat. “I have an idea I think you’ll appreciate since your family has earned its wealth through transportation.”

  George nodded but said nothing.

  “I’ve purchased a fine self-propelled vehicle manufactured by the Duryea brothers. You may have heard of them. A Duryea vehicle has either won or placed in every motorcar race in the United States for the past five years.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt seemed to have turned into a statue. What would cause such a change? Ned looked at his hands rather than at his host, trying to gather his thoughts. “My idea is to use this vehicle to start a manufactory right here in Biltmore Village.” Now the words came faster and faster. “I’ll start by building one motorcar, and as soon as it sells, I’ll use the money to buy parts for another. Since the parts are much less expensive than the assembled vehicle, I shouldbe able to build two or perhaps even three. I hope to one day employ as many as twelve people in my manufactory and perhaps a salesperson as well. I believe if you will help me get started, you and your town will reap the benefits for years to come.”

  He finally ran out of words, so Ned sat back in his chair and looked at the other man. He wished he knew Mr. Vanderbilt well enough to read his expression.

  A few tense moments passed. The other men in the room seemed oblivious to the drama playing out in this corner of the billiards room. They laughed and continued their game while Ned waited to see if his dreams were about to be dashed.

  Vanderbilt frowned. “I don’t much like these horseless carriages. I prefer the grace and safety of a well-trained team of horses.”

  Ned’s heart fell at the other man’s words. Weight seemed to fall on his shoulders. His ankle throbbed. “I see.” He forced the words out through a tight throat. He refused to let his emotions out. He still had his dream. All he had to do was convince someone to take a chance on him. He stood.

  One of the men to whom he’d been introduced walked over to the table. “Excuse me for intruding on your conversation, but I have to say, George, I’m shocked by your attitude.”

  Surprise froze Ned in his tracks. Who was this man to talk so to his host?

  “Why is that, Horace?”

  “You’re a man of vision. I have never seen you reject an idea without giving it due consideration. What if this youngman’s right? What if his vehicle is to become the future of transportation? Why don’t you give him a chance to show what his motorcar can do?”

  George frowned. “You have a point.” He stood and faced Ned. “How soon can you give me a demonstration?”

  Ned gulped. “There was a slight problem upon my arrival.”

  “Something is wrong with your horseless carriage?”

  Unable to lie to the man but unable to admit the truth, Ned nodded. “But I can have it ready by the end of the year.”

  George looked from Horace back to Ned. “You have exactly two weeks. I’ll let you use the stables since I understand your vehicle was brought here after it nearly ran down one of my mares. But I want you to be finished and out of here before the rest of my holiday guests arrive in two weeks’ time.”

  “But I don’t—”

  Horace put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’d say yes, young man. I can hardly convince George you have a reliable product unless you can take us all for a drive.”

  Another gulp preceded his nod. Somehow he would have to repair his vehicle. He would have to find out what had been damaged in the accident and order replacement parts as soon as possible. Then he would have to put everything back together and pray it would perform well. “Two weeks.”

  “If you can take Horace and me on a tour of the grounds in a f
ortnight, I’ll consider your proposal. If not, I will hold to my original decision.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He nodded to both men and turned to go. He had a lot to do and very little time to get it done. Perhaps if he could hire someone to help him. But where would he find the extra funds?

  Chapter 5

  Where are those potatoes?” Vivian Anderson, the English chef, frowned at Melissa. “I need to add them to the venison stew, or the staff shall not enjoy their dinner this evening.”

  Melissa nodded and wiped her forehead with one hand, being careful not to slice open her forehead with the razor-sharp knife she held. “I am going as fast as I can.”

  “Humph.” One of the other kitchen workers, a young girl named Annette, flounced across the kitchen holding two cans of peaches. “You’re courting disaster to hurry her.”

  A frown pulled Melissa’s brows together. She had not heard as many taunts as when she first began working in the kitchens, but some of the maids still did not trust her.

  “You leave her alone, Annette.” The chef shook a finger at the girl. “I don’t recall the butler coming down here to congratulate you on a job well done.”

  “Oui.” Monsieur Ceperlean added his support as he took the peaches from Annette. “Melissa saved le déjeuner. You have only brought some fruit. Now go to find some eggs from the refrigerator.”

  Annette turned on her heel and retraced her steps across the pastry kitchen. The look she tossed at Melissa would have done more damage than any knife could.

  Melissa blushed and returned her attention to the potatoes. Last Sunday night one of the dumbwaiters had stuck between the kitchen and the butler’s pantry. No matter how much pressure was applied to the electric button, the box would not move.

  Climbing into the shaft with a lantern, Melissa investigated the situation. She found a cracked box that had deposited a mass of splinters as it moved up and down the walls of the shaft. She had managed to push the box free so it could finish its journey upward, and then she had removed the splinters before climbing out to resume her duties.

  When the English butler, Mr. Burdette, came to find her the following day, he had heaped praise on her, calling her an angel in disguise. The fuss he created had embarrassed her, but Melissa appreciated the compliments.

  The English chef took the bowl of peeled potatoes from her and walked toward the main kitchen. “I want you to finish those before I return.”

  Melissa nodded and reapplied herself to her task.

  Monsieur Ceperlean whipped his special dessert, a soufflé filled with peaches and spices. He slid it into the large oven behind Melissa and nodded emphatically. “Now we wait. How go your potatoes?”

  “Slowly.” Melissa grimaced. “I am afraid I won’t finish in time.”

  The chef frowned and sat down on the other side of the table. “Do you want Annette to help?”

  “No, monsieur.” She stopped peeling. “Thank you, but Annette and I do not always see eye to eye.”

  A chuckle answered her. “Then you must hurry, little one. Here, let me show you.” He picked up one of the unpeeled potatoes and took the knife from her hand. He held it at an angle and whipped it back and forth, moving the potato between nimble fingers. The peel seemed to disappear magically. “This is the way to peel a potato.” He held it up for her inspection before dropping it into the bowl with the others she had managed to complete. “Now let me see you do it.”

  She peeled it the way he showed her, slowly at first, and then faster as she grew more confident. “I see.”

  The chef rose and went to the stove to check his soufflé. “It is done.”

  Melissa continued peeling as she turned to see the chef’s masterpiece. It looked like a cake or a tall pie. The crust had risen above the edge of its pan and was lightly browned. “Very nice.” She took one last swipe at the potato in her hand and watched as a long piece of brown peel flew away from the vegetable.

  She tried to stop it, tried to catch it, but all she managed was to knock over the bowl of peeled potatoes. Water sluiced across the planks of the table, and potatoes rolled everywhere. But Melissa didn’t see them.

  As if guided with the accuracy of a hunter’s arrow, the length of brown peel sailed upward in an arc and down again toward the soufflé, landing with an audible plop right in the center of the dessert. For a second she thought it was going to be okay, that she had not done any damage to Monsieur’s soufflé. Then a slight hissing sound became audible, and the top sank. Slowly at first but then faster. The sides caved in toward the potato peel and wilted like a punctured balloon.

  Melissa dropped the knife and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.”

  Her moan was echoed by Monsieur. “My soufflé. It is gone.” He turned toward her, and Melissa saw tears in his eyes. “What have you done?”

  Horrified, Melissa stood and backed away from the table. “I—I am so sorry.”

  A potato hit the floor with a wet splat, and she bent over to pick it up and return it to the now-empty bowl. Water was everywhere—dripping from the table, puddled on the floor. One by one she began picking up the vegetables and returning them to their proper places, wishing she could say something to make things right. When she finished she looked toward the Frenchman.

  “Leave me.” His mouth drooped downward, and his voice broke, like someone trying to hold grief at bay.

  Melissa’s heart dropped to her toes as she ran from the room. She would never succeed, no matter how hard she tried. She wasn’t fit to work at Biltmore.

  She left the house by the nearest doorway and headed to the stables. Robert would understand. Maybe he could even offer some hope. As she ran, tears filled her eyes. She stumbled once but managed to keep her balance. Cold air brushed her but brought no relief to her hot, tear-streaked cheeks.

  The stable appeared empty when she entered. “Ro … bert.” She ran to the back stalls when she saw the dim shape of his head through her tears.

  She barreled into him at full tilt. “I–I’ve done s– something terrible.”

  “What?”

  Sobs shook her. “I’ve r–ruined everything.”

  His hands alternately patted and rubbed her back as he held her close. His whispered words offered comfort and understanding, eventually slowing the flood of tears. That’s when she realized something wasn’t right.

  Robert’s shoulders were too tall, and the arms around her were strong but not as thick. And his hands … his hands were larger. Horror replaced her anguish. This was not Robert!

  She pushed at his chest with balled fists. “Who … what?” She looked up at him in the shadowy room. Instead of the blond hair and kind eyes of her childhood friend, she encountered a stranger’s face.

  The man stood at least half a foot taller than her friend. His hair was as dark as midnight, brushing across his forehead in a thick wave. His eyes were as dark as his hair, his nose was narrower than Robert’s, and his lips were fuller, wider as they stretched into a tentative smile.

  “I’m Ned Robinson.” He bowed at the waist, moving slowly as if hurt. “I don’t know what’s happened, but it cannot be as terrible as you think right now. God is in control, and I’m certain a good night’s sleep will help you regain your perspective.”

  Melissa gasped. The driver of the horseless carriage! What was he doing here? “How dare you. Why didn’t you tell me right away you weren’t Robert?”

  His smile widened. “You didn’t give me much opportunity.”

  She sniffed.

  He reached in his pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and offered it to her.

  She took it and mopped her face. Her innate fairness made her admit to herself he was right. He hadn’t asked her to come running blindly into the stable. And he had been chivalrous enough to offer comfort when she needed it.

  “What’s going on here?” Now Robert made an appearance.

  Melissa whirled around to watch him march toward them. He held a lantern up high, shedding light into the dark co
rner of the stall. She dropped her gaze to the straw at her feet.

  “Did he hurt you, Melissa?”

  The question brought her head up. “Oh no. He was—he let me cry on his shoulder.”

  Mr. Robinson stepped forward. “She was a bit distraught and came looking for you. I have a sister. I know how it can be.”

  Melissa wanted to take offense at the look that passed between the two men. Was he saying she was overly emotional? And was Robert agreeing with him?

  “I heard what happened in the pastry kitchen.” Robert lowered his lantern and glanced toward her. “Why were you peeling potatoes in there instead of the main kitchen?”

  “Too many people were working in the main kitchen.” She twisted Mr. Robinson’s handkerchief around one hand. “The chef sent me to work in the pastry kitchen. I didn’t mean for the peel to land in the soufflé.”

  Robert whistled. “You ruined Monsieur’s dessert.”

  Hot tears pressed against her eyes once more. Would she never exhaust her supply? She sniffed and pulled harder on the handkerchief. “He sent me away—” Her voice broke. “I–I’m sure they’ll sack me this time.”

  “Because of an accident?” Mr. Robinson’s face showed disbelief. “I cannot imagine you’d be dismissed for such a small thing.”

  She glanced at him and nodded.

  Robert sighed. “You don’t know how many ‘accidents’ Melissa has caused since she was hired.” He briefly described the laundry accident and the broken Tiffany lamp, taking care to include the improvements she’d made in both cases. He finished with the repairs she had made to the dumbwaiter.

  A frown appeared on Mr. Robinson’s face. “I don’t understand. It seems to me she’s an asset to the Vanderbilts.”

  Feeling like she had received an unexpected Christmas gift, Melissa looked at the tall, dark man with gratitude. Never had she dreamed he would champion her. Not after he blamed her for his accident. The threat of renewed tears receded. “I wish Mrs. King shared your views.”

  The smile he gave her warmed Melissa to her toes. The low opinion she’d held of him disappeared like the Christmas cookies Selma used to make before she left the orphanage. Her heart fluttered as his smile widened. Dimples appeared in his cheeks, and she suddenly realized how handsome this newcomer was.