by Speer, Flora
Christmas Carol
By Flora Speer
Smashwords Edition
Published by Flora Speer at Smashwords
Copyright © 1994, by Flora Speer
Cover design Copyright 2012, By http//:DigitalDonna.com
This book is dedicated to my readers, and most especially to those who enjoy historical, time-travel, or futuristic romances. We who read or write in those subgenres of romance believe that true love is not confined by the limits of ordinary time or space. Thus, I give you Carol’s story, with the wish that every one of your holidays will be merry and bright and that love, which is the true spirit of any holiday, will remain in your hearts throughout all the years to come.
All the best to you,
Flora Speer
Part I.
Humbug.
London, 1993.
Chapter 1.
Considering her dislike of any occasion that required the distribution of gifts or money, it was regarded by all who knew her to be perfectly in character for Lady Augusta Marlowe to take her leave of this world on the 18th day of December. By doing so she neatly avoided having to hand out Christmas presents to her servants or to the few tradespeople who were still willing to deliver groceries, or wine or spirits, or the occasional garment, to her door. That is to say, to the door assigned for servants and tradesmen. The front door—original to the house and carved of solid oak—was seldom used anymore. Even Carol Noelle Simmons, who was Lady Augusta’s paid companion, and thus might have passed with impunity through the mansion’s chief portal had she chosen to do so, almost always used the servants’ entrance instead. However, on Tuesday, the twenty-first day of December, Crampton the butler was kept busy opening and closing the heavy front door, for this was the day of Lady Augusta’s funeral.
Carol was forced to admire the old girl’s spunk. Early in the autumn Lady Augusta had declared with all the shrill force of which she was capable that she would not be taken to a nursing home or to a hospital. She absolutely defied her despairing physician on that point. Nor, as it turned out, did she intend to pay for professional nursing care at home. Thus, it had fallen to Carol and the few remaining servants to bathe and feed her, and to turn her when she became incapable of moving on her own.
Lady Augusta’s fury at her ever-increasing helplessness had fallen upon all of her staff, but most especially on Carol. Cantankerous to the end, during the last few months of her life Lady Augusta had even denied Carol the free day each week that she was supposed to have.
While not daring to disobey her employer, Carol had resented the deprivation. She had precious little money to spend—Lady Augusta considered room and board to be a large part of her servants’ wages and Carol was, in Lady Augusta’s opinion, no more than an overpaid servant—but London offered pleasures that cost nothing at all. The only requirements were a comfortable pair of walking shoes, an umbrella, and a weatherproof outer garment. But since Lady Augusta had become permanently bedridden at the end of September, Carol’s solitary walks had been denied to her. Those treasured hours could soon begin again, for Carol stood now, in late afternoon of the day of Lady Augusta’s funeral, in the chilly, pale yellow drawing room of Marlowe House, bidding farewell to the mourners.
There were few of them and they departed ill-fed. When she knew her end was fast approaching, Lady Augusta had stipulated that only tea and biscuits should be served at the funeral “feast.” Even in death her commandments were not to be disobeyed. Carol wondered if the servants feared Lady Augusta would return to haunt them if they opened a bottle of sherry for the guests as she herself had suggested the day before.
“Certainly not, Miss Simmons,” Crampton had responded to Carol’s remark with barely concealed horror. “There will be no wine served. Lady Augusta personally ordered the menu for this occasion and we will, as always, follow her directions to the letter.”
And so they had. A small coal fire burned in the grate, a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea sat upon a tray on one of the delicate Regency-style tables, and Carol felt certain the drawing room was every bit as cold and cheerless as it must have been in the early eighteen hundreds when Marlowe House was first built.
Now the Reverend Mr. Lucius Kincaid, who was the rector of nearby St. Fiacre’s Church and who had performed the funeral service, approached Carol. Assuming that he was about to take his leave, Carol put out her hand to shake his. But the clergyman apparently had no intention of departing from Marlowe House until he had extracted some information from Carol.
“I do hope,” he said, “that Lady Augusta remembered St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board in her will.” He was a tall, thin man with dark hair going gray and clothes that did not fit him very well. Carol regarded him with distaste for, like her late employer, she was not interested in religion. In fact, Carol could not remember Lady Augusta ever entering a church. It was Crampton who had suggested that the Reverend Mr. Kincaid be asked to conduct the funeral service.
“We have not yet heard anything about Lady Augusta’s charitable bequests,” said the rector’s wife, who joined them. In contrast to her nondescript husband, the blond, blue-eyed Mrs. Kincaid wore a fashionable outfit with a remarkably short skirt and a hat that might have come right out of the American West. “I must confess that we at St. Fiacre’s are feeling a bit desperate right now. There always seems to be such need at Christmastime, so much that ought to be done to help the poor. We stand ready to provide what is required, if only we have the funds. Or at least a pledge.”
“I am not authorized to make donations in Lady Augusta’s name,” Carol said coldly. “If you want money, speak to her solicitor.”
“Then perhaps you yourself would care to contribute to our holiday efforts,” urged the rector, giving Carol a smile she chose not to return.
“I do not,” Carol snapped.
“Surely,” Lucius Kincaid persisted, “having received from Lady Augusta generous recompense for your devoted care of her over these last five years and more, you will be disposed at this holy season to give liberally to help the less fortunate.”
Biting her tongue to keep herself from retorting that there was no one less fortunate than herself, Carol glared at the Reverend Mr. Kincaid. Until meeting him on the day of Lady Augusta’s death she had not known that people stiff talked the way he did. With his cultivated accent the man sounded as if he belonged in the Victorian Age. How dare he hit her up for money at a funeral?
“St. Fiacre’s Church,” Carol murmured, taking a nasty pleasure in what she was about to say. “I know who St. Fiacre was.”
“In this nation of gardeners, most people do,” the rector responded, “since he is the patron saint of gardeners.”
“That’s not all,” said Carol. “St. Fiacre was a typical woman-hating, sixth-century Irish hermit-monk. As I recall, he made a rule forbidding all females from entering his precious enclosure.” She was not sure why she was deliberately being so unpleasant. She usually had better manners than she was displaying on this occasion, but something about the Kincaids grated on her. For a reason she could not understand, they were making her feel guilty. She did not like the feeling.
“Saints are notoriously difficult people, whose very saintliness makes everyone around them uncomfortable,” Mrs. Kincaid said, laughing as if to show she was not offended by Carol’s rudeness. “There is even a legend about a noblewoman who once broke St. Fiacre’s rule. She actually dared to walk into the enclosure surrounding his hut and attempted to speak with him. Of course, she immediately suffered a dreadful death. But that happened, if it happened at all, more than fourteen hundred years ago. It would take a foolish woman indeed to still be angry over attitudes that existed so far in the past. In these modern times, we ought instead to forgive poor ol
d St. Fiacre his sins, if any, against the gentler sex, and perhaps occasionally invoke his horticultural spirit when we are having trouble with our gardens.” She finished her speech with a smile.
“I don’t garden,” Carol said. “I never have.” She watched with pleasure as Mrs. Kincaid’s smile vanished.
“If you would like to learn,” Lucius Kincaid offered in a friendly way, “we can always put volunteers to good use in the little garden in our churchyard when spring arrives.” • “No, thanks. I’m a city girl.” The Kincaids would probably expect her to donate plants to their wretched garden. Carol had no intention of throwing any money away on flowers.
“Look,” Carol said, “it’s none of your business, but just so you won’t waste your time asking me again, Lady Augusta left me nothing.”
“Nothing at all?” gasped the rector’s wife.
“Nothing.” Carol was still reacting with rudeness to what she perceived as prying questions. “Since you appear to be indecently interested in the will, let me tell you what the solicitor told me and the other servants this morning. Lady Augusta did leave small amounts to Crampton and to Mrs. Marks, the cook. But Nell the chambermaid, Hettie the scullery maid, and myself receive nothing but room and board for one month after Lady Augusta’s death, during which time we are to search for new employment.”
“Dear me.” The rector appeared to be in shock. “Not a generous arrangement, I must say.”
“You’re damned right about that. I hope you weren’t expecting Lady Augusta to be generous.” Carol included both the rector and his wife in her mirthless grin. “She was the stingiest, coldest woman I nave ever known.”
“Now, now, Miss Simmons,” Lucius Kincaid said. “Whatever your personal disappointment in this matter, one must always speak well of the dead.”
“That’s what I was doing. I admired Lady Augusta’s stinginess, and the way she never took any nonsense from anyone. She lived and died the way she wanted and I say, good for her.”
“She lived for the most part alone, and died alone, too, save for her employees,” the rector noted, adding in one of his old-fashioned phrases, “One would hope to have at one’s side at the end of life a close relative, or at least a dear friend.”
“Instead she had me, and she didn’t think I was worth much. She proved that by her non-bequest.” Carol did not add what she was thinking, that everyone else she had ever known had also assumed that Carol Noelle Simmons wasn’t worth much. Not unless she had plenty of money to boost her charms into something interesting. She made herself stop thinking about her own past. She had promised herself long ago to put out of her mind the uncaring man who—
“Speaking of close relatives,” said the rector’s wife, intruding into Carol’s unpleasant ruminations, “why isn’t Nicholas Montfort here? I believe he is Lady Augusta’s only living relative?”
“Yes,” her husband put in. “Mr. Montfort is Lady Augusta’s nephew, her only sister’s child.”
With an effort, Carol refrained from asking if her two inquisitors had been researching the Marlowe-Montfort genealogy. Instead, she offered a reasonably polite explanation for the absence of Nicholas Montfort.
“Mr. Montfort was unable to leave Hong Kong immediately. Business interests keep him there. He sent a telegram urging us to go on with the funeral in his absence. He expects to arrive in London sometime next week to meet with the solicitor about the estate.”
“One would think,” said the rector’s wife, “that he would have wanted the funeral delayed until he could be present.”
“No doubt Mr. Montfort was as fond of his late aunt as were most people.” Carol’s eyes narrowed as she addressed the rector. “Come to think of it, I never noticed you visiting Lady Augusta while she was alive. Would you have asked her for a donation?”
“I did, during a pastoral visit several years ago. She refused to give any money to St. Fiacre’s and said she never wanted to see me in her house again. Still, in Christian charity, one would have thought—in her will—and here it is Christmastime.…” Lucius Kincaid paused meaningfully.
“Oh, yes.” Carol could not keep the sneer out of her voice. In truth, she did not try very hard, for her exasperation with this ecclesiastical couple was increasing rapidly. “The holiday. I am afraid I would be the last person to help you in the name of the season. I don’t think much of Christmas.”
“Not think much of Christmas?” Mrs. Kincaid echoed.
“That’s right.” Carol had had enough of being questioned. Noting the glance that passed between husband and wire, she added, “The way Christmas is celebrated these days is just an excuse for rampant commercialism. There’s no real spirit left in the holiday anymore.”
“If you believe that, then you have been spending the holiday with the wrong people,” the Reverend Mr. Kincaid informed her. “I know of places where the true spirit of Christmas dwells all year long.”
“Really?” Carol gave him a scathing look. “Well, then, you just have a happy little Christmas in one of those places. But don’t ask me to celebrate with you, and don’t expect me to donate to your favorite charity.” With that, she turned her back on the pair, not caring if her words or the action had shocked or distressed them yet again. She had her own reasons for hating the Christmas holiday, but she wasn’t about to discuss them with the Reverend Mr. Kincaid and his wife.
Carol wished that people would not make assumptions about her financial state as the rector had done. People had been doing it all her life. Young men, seeing her parents’ lavish lifestyle at the pinnacle of New York City’s newly rich society during the nineteen-eighties, assumed she would inherit great wealth. Carol had believed it herself. But when, through the machinations of his business associates who had involved themselves in illegal stock transactions, her father had gone bankrupt, the protestations of eternal devotion had ended abruptly and those same young men—including the one special man with whom she had foolishly imagined herself in love—had lost all interest in her. Her girlfriends had also begun to shun her. And not one of those so-called friends who had assumed that her father’s wealth was endless had lifted a hand to help him in his struggles to repay his partners’ debts. Her mother’s response to financial ruin had been divorce and remarriage to a man who was more wealthy than Henry Simmons had ever been. The former Mrs. Simmons had then departed on a long honeymoon cruise. Carol did not know her mother’s present whereabouts, and after their last bitter quarrel, she really did not care.
His fortune gone, deserted by his wife, Henry Alwyn Simmons had taken an antique gun from his collection and blown out his brains. The deed had been done on Christmas Eve, which also happened to be Carol’s 21st birthday.
Left alone and virtually penniless, Carol had begun searching for a job, only to discover that in the recession-bound economy of the late nineteen-eighties, her previously sheltered life had left her unsuited to do any kind of practical work. Computers were a mystery to her. She might have taught French, which she spoke well, or English literature or history, but none of the schools to which she applied displayed interest in hiring a young woman with no teaching experience.
She worked for a few months as a waitress, but hated the job except for the food she was able to hide away in her purse each day to eat later in her rented room. She quit the job when the restaurant manager made it all too clear to her what she would have to do to earn a raise in her meager paycheck. She hadn’t been hungry enough to sell herself for food or for a promise of money.
Being of a thrifty disposition, she had managed to save a little cash, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. It was then, when she was wondering if she would end as her father had done, that she saw the ad for a paid companion. The job was in London and offered room, board, and a small salary. The chance to get out of New York had been an added incentive. After a lengthy phone interview, Carol had been offered the job. She’d possessed just enough money to buy a one-way economy-class ticket from New York to London.
Fresh from an overnight flight, with her single suitcase in one hand and the address of her new employer in the other, Carol had arrived early one morning on Lady Augusta Marlowe’s doorstep. At first she’d been greatly relieved to have found a position with such a prestigious British family. She’d needed only a week of employment at Marlowe House before she understood why Lady Augusta had been forced to advertise in the United States. Her stinginess and ill temper were legendary. But Lady Augusta’s character had suited Carol’s mood at the time, and gradually she’d adapted to the difficult old lady’s eccentricities.
In fact, the two of them had been remarkably similar. Like Lady Augusta, Carol knew—she believed it in her deepest heart—that the only thing that mattered on this earth was money. She had seen in her own life what money could buy—for proof, she needed to look no further than her many suitors and her extravagant mother—and she knew from the defections of her would-be lovers from her side, and from her mother’s easy desertion of her father, exactly what happened when the money disappeared.
Which was why she so respected Lady Augusta, who harbored no illusions about human affections. Or the value of charity. Or the need to celebrate holidays with an extravaganza of feasting and gifts and parties. Especially Christmas, which was nothing more than commercial nonsense designed to trick ordinary, hardworking fools out of their money. Carol heartily agreed with Lady Augusta on all of these points, if not on the matter of leaving bequests to one’s employees.
“That was the last of them, Miss Simmons. I’ll send Nell to clear the tea things away.” Crampton entered the drawing room, and suddenly Carol realized that she had been so deep in thought that, without noticing what she was doing, she must have bid farewell to the Reverend Mr. Kincaid and his wife, to the solicitor, and to the five or six other people who had attended the funeral. “Will you be taking dinner in your room again tonight?”