As planned—twice now—Jacob stood at the end, waiting for his Christmas bride. On seeing her, his face lit up, and tears pricked her eyes. Evie pushed her closer, and when she was near him, Miriam realized that Jacob wasn’t wearing a fancy brocade coat with a silk cravat as he had for the concert. No, he wore a navy coat that she recognized from Audbury—fine wool, but wool nonetheless. This was truly her Jacob, not wealthy and famous Davis Jacobson.
Evie set the brake and supported Miriam as she steadied the cane and eased herself into a standing position. Evie then opened a bag she’d carried on her arm, revealing a small bouquet of holly, laurel, and mistletoe. “A bride must have a bouquet.”
“Thank you, sweet friend,” Miriam said. She held the bouquet with one hand and balanced herself on the cane with her other.
Jacob stepped close and rested a hand on her lower back, offering additional protection. Despite the aches in both legs, she’d never been happier, and she was perfectly content to stand there in the abbey with Jacob for as long as she could.
The vicar began the ceremony, which was as beautiful as she could have hoped. They spoke their vows and exchanged rings Jacob had brought with him. At long last, they were pronounced husband and wife, and they shared their first wedded kiss.
They returned to the townhouse, where Jacob had arranged a fine meal. That night, after the servants had retired, before Mr. and Mrs. Davies went to bed, he locked what was now their bedchamber door and scooped her into his arms.
“Goodness!” Miriam said with laughing surprise.
“We haven’t had a proper first dance,” Jacob said. He kissed her soundly, then began swaying side to side and turning in slow circles, humming a tune as they “danced.” Blissfully happy, Miriam rested her head against his shoulder, one hand pressed against his heart as if she needed to know that they were both indeed alive and experiencing the same joy.
And then Jacob began to sing, softly, in almost a whisper, for an audience of one.
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
Miriam recognized the words as those of Robert Burns, but the love that sang them was all Jacob’s, and when he finished, she kissed him and held him, returning the love that was entirely hers to give.
Check out the next novel by Annette Lyon!
Annette Lyon is a USA Today bestselling author, a 6-time Best of State medalist for fiction in Utah, and a Whitney Award winner. She’s had success as a professional editor and in newspaper, magazine, and technical writing, but her first love has always been fiction.
She’s a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English and is the author of over a dozen books, including the Whitney Award-winning Band of Sisters, a chocolate cookbook, and a grammar guide. She co-founded and was served as the original editor of the Timeless Romance Anthology series and continues to be a regular contributor to the collections.
She has received five publication awards from the League of Utah Writers, including the Silver Quill, and she’s one of the four coauthors of the Newport Ladies Book Club series. Annette is represented by Heather Karpas at ICM Partners.
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A Christmas Journey
Jennifer Moore
Chapter 1
“Today, he’ll come,” Lucy Breckenridge whispered to herself as she hurried down the stairs to breakfast. “It must be today.”
The smell of Mrs. Fraser’s tattie scones drifted through the house, filling Lucy with a warm nostalgia. For the last nine years, as war raged on the peninsula, she’d been shuffled from one relative to the next, only coming to her own home as a visitor for a few weeks when her father was on leave. But now she was home to stay, and with Napoleon finally defeated and banished to St. Helena, soldiers were returning home as well. And among them was Colonel William Breckenridge.
She smiled as she stepped into the entrance hall and glanced at the coat stand. She and Mrs. Fraser had pressed her father’s winter coat and dusted his beaver-skin hat. He’d not need his regimentals now. There were no French to fight in North Yorkshire.
Lucy came into the kitchen and sat at the table. The three servants her father employed—Mrs. Fraser, the cook and housekeeper; Meg Riley, the maid; and Mr. Owens, man-of-all-work—were already seated, but they rose when she entered.
“Good morning, miss.” Mrs. Fraser set a clean plate in front of Lucy and scooted the scones and butter near. She scooped a bowl of porridge and set it beside Lucy’s plate, folding her arms and nodding in her practical way. Mrs. Fraser had maintained this same house since the time of Lucy’s grandparents. She was tall and bony and seemed to wear a permanent frown. Lucy had been frightened of Mrs. Fraser when she was a small girl, but she’d learned that beneath her prickly exterior, the woman was softhearted and very loyal.
“Good morning.” Lucy grinned. “I believe he will arrive today,” she said.
The others nodded, and Lucy knew they were humoring her. She’d made the same announcement each morning since her father’s letter had arrived weeks earlier and she’d returned to Pinnock Hill.
“I do hope so, miss,” Meg said. She smiled, the expression looking particularly cheerful on her round, freckled face. The maid wore a white cap over her hair, but her red curls did not seem to know that they were supposed to remain beneath it. They poked out in every direction like springs.
“And whut tasks do ye ’ave fer us today, then, miss?” Mr. Owens grunted, wiping crumbs from his waistcoat.
Lucy thought through her extensive list of preparations. Mr. Owens had already dragged a large log to the stable to keep it dry until Christmas Eve. He’d washed all the windows, filled the wood box, cleaned the root cellar, repainted the wainscoting in the dining room, and repaired the wobbly stair rail.
“If you please,” Lucy said, “the hedges beneath the north window need trimming.”
“’Twill wait for spring, surely.” The man glanced through the window at the newly fallen snow.
“Everything must be just right,” Lucy said, not acknowledging his protest and smearing butter onto her scone.
“Very well, miss,” he said. But she thought he grumbled something beneath his breath.
“I’ve finished dusting out all the hearths, like you asked,” Meg said. “And polishing the silverware and beating the drapes and rugs. I rubbed down all the furniture with beeswax and put clean linens on the beds. And fresh towels in the washrooms.”
“Thank you, Meg.” Lucy gave a grateful smile. The girl had worked hard reopening the house—even though much of her work had been done in a heavy coat and scarf as the windows were thrown open and rooms aired out. But her efforts had paid off. Every room sparkled.
“And Mrs. Fraser, you—”
“Pudding was prepared weeks ago,” the older woman interrupted, the slightest hint of irritation in her voice. “I ordered a Christmas goose from the butcher and found the scented soap the colonel fancies.”
“Have we black currant preserves?” Lucy asked, glancing at the different types of jam before her. “Father loves black currant preserves on his toast.”
Mrs. Fraser’s brow ticked. “I will find some, miss.”
Lucy knew she was being fastidio
us, but she’d not spent Christmas with her father since she was ten years old. And she was not going to let a single thing get in the way of their happy celebration. Everything must be perfect.
“Meg, I wondered if you might walk with me later this morning when the weather is warmer,” Lucy said. “I hoped to search in the woods behind the parsonage for some ivy and a mistletoe.”
“O’ course, miss. There’s always some Christmas greenery to be found.” She winked. “If you know where to look.”
Lucy nodded and took a bite of porridge. “Oh yes,” she said, nearly forgetting to swallow in her excitement. “And we should stop in town for ribbon to decorate the mantel and Christmas table.”
“Yes, miss.”
When breakfast was finished, Lucy checked each room again. She did so in part to ensure that no detail had gone unnoticed but also for the sheer delight of knowing that she was here, in her real home. And she and her father would be a family again.
She hummed a Christmas tune as she arranged the inkpot and quills on her father’s desk in the library, listening with one ear for the sound of a carriage. If her father came by stage and hired a coach in town, he should arrive this afternoon, but coach schedules were never definite, especially in the winter. She checked that the clock on the mantel was wound and smoothed the pleats in the drapes. Perhaps he’d purchased a new carriage, and he would arrive at any moment.
A book sat on a low table between the sofa and the library’s hearth. The Christmas Album. After trying various spots throughout the house, Lucy had concluded that this was the proper location for it. A place of honor.
She pulled the book onto her lap and ran her hand gently over the worn leather cover. Colonel Breckenridge had given Lucy the book as a gift on the Christmas after her mother had died. In it, they’d recorded holiday memories together, documenting family traditions with Mother, lest they forget. The year following, they’d read the entries from the year before and added to it, remembering happy Christmas games and holiday visitors. Lucy had taken especial care to document their Christmas feast in pictures.
Over the next nine years, she and her father had continued to add to the book, though his contribution came through letters telling of the holiday traditions taking place where he and his troops were stationed.
Lucy turned through the Christmas album. She studied a handbill advertising El Gordo that she’d pasted to a page. She didn’t understand the words on the paper, but her father had explained in his letter that even the Peninsular War didn’t stop Cádiz from holding its annual Christmas lottery.
He’d sent drawings of Krampus, the imp from Austria who punished naughty children. He told of the candles and hymns at Midnight Mass in Portugal. One of her favorite drawings was of a Tannenbaum—a decorated evergreen tree brought into Bavarian homes on Christmas Eve.
Lucy noted how her entries were much duller, as she’d spent the holidays in the homes of different relatives. But true to her promise, she’d recorded the memories of the season with details and pictures to share with her father when they were together again on Christmas.
She placed the book reverently back on the table, a thrill of delight running through her as she pictured curling up on the sofa beside her father, perusing the pages in the warm glow of the firelight. In anticipation of a chilly evening, she’d folded her father’s lap blanket over the arm of the sofa. It was just the right size to cover two laps. Perhaps she would ask Mrs. Fraser to prepare hot chocolate. And she would place a bowl of peppermints just within reach as the two reminisced and later added their memories of this year. She already had three party invitations from neighbors ready to paste inside after they attended the Christmastide gatherings.
Lucy gave a happy sigh. She stood and straightened the lap blanket, fluffed up the sofa cushions, and went to find Meg for their outing.
***
Hours later, Lucy rubbed her arms through her coat as she and Meg hurried up the lane toward home. The afternoon sun was dropping low. In spite of the cold air and the snow crunching beneath their feet, Lucy was pleased with what they’d accomplished.
“That was a successful trip,” she said, smiling at the maid.
“That it was, miss.” Meg shivered beneath her shawl. Her nose and cheeks were almost as red as her hair. “We found ribbon and black currant preserves. Won’t Mrs. Fraser be happy not to have to go into town?”
“I imagine so,” Lucy said, tucking her chin into her scarf as a cold wind blew. “When we return on Christmas Eve to gather holly, Mr. Owen will need a pole to retrieve the mistletoe.” She grinned as a thought occurred to her. “And my father may choose to accompany us as well,”
“O’ course he will, miss.”
Shadows from trees and houses lengthened and darkened, stretching over the snowy ground.
“I wonder if my old sled is in the stable,” Lucy said as the pair turned up the path toward her home. The windows glowed, a beacon of warmth, and they walked quicker. “Mr. Owens will—”
Lucy stopped. A carriage stood before the house.
Her heart jolted, and she gasped, grabbing on to Meg’s arm. “He’s come!” She dashed up the path and threw open the door, running inside. “Father!” Her voice echoed through the entryway.
An overcoat hung on the rack beside the door, and on the table beside it were a bicorn hat and a pair of gloves. Lucy ran into the drawing room, nearly bowling into Mrs. Fraser in the doorway. “Father, I’m here—”
A man in a regimental jacket rose when she entered.
Lucy rushed forward but caught herself only a moment before throwing herself into his arms. The man was not Colonel Breckenridge, but a much younger person. She stared at him for a moment, then looked around the room.
“Miss Lucy Breckenridge, I presume?” the man said, clasping his hands behind his back. He spoke with a trace of a Scottish brogue.
“Where is my father?” Lucy asked.
From behind her, Mrs. Fraser cleared her throat. “Miss, this is Captain Stewart.”
Lucy recognized the gentle rebuke in the woman’s voice. “I beg your pardon, Captain,” she said, dipping in a curtsy. “How do you do?”
The sound of the front door closing indicated that Meg had come inside. Mrs. Fraser helped remove the heavy coat from Lucy’s shoulders and unwound her scarf.
Captain Stewart stood straight, his manner confident. Even if he weren’t wearing a red coat, she’d recognize him as a military man. He inclined his head. “A pleasure, Miss Breckenridge.”
Lucy gave a smile that she knew must appear distracted. She pulled off her bonnet and handed it to the housekeeper. “Excuse me, Captain. I must see my father.” Perhaps the colonel had gone to his bedchamber to freshen up after his journey. Or to the library. She turned and started from the room.
Mrs. Fraser caught her arm as she passed. “You need to talk to the captain, miss.”
Lucy glanced up the stairs once more and let out a frustrated sigh before returning to the drawing room. She sat on a chair across from the sofa, forcing her shoulders to relax, and assumed a cordial expression. As the lady of the house, it was her duty to act the part of a gracious hostess—even when she didn’t feel like one.
The captain sat as well, hands on his knees, his back ramrod straight and his expression serious. On the table in front of him was a cup of tea and a plate that held only scone crumbs.
“You served in Spain with my father, Captain Stewart?” Lucy asked in a polite voice.
“I did.” The man’s eyes were an interesting shade of blue, Lucy observed, thinking that at another time she might enjoy making the captain’s acquaintance. He surely had interesting stories to tell about the peninsular campaigns. And her father must hold Captain Stewart in some esteem if he’d traveled with him all the way from London. Not to mention, the captain was quite handsome.
“I am grateful that you’ve accompanied him home,” she said, listening for her father’s footsteps on the stairs. “The journey would otherwise ha
ve been very dull for both of you.”
Captain Stewart leaned forward the slightest bit. “Miss Breckenridge, I’m sorry, but your father isn’t here.”
Lucy pinched her lips together, confused. “You came ahead?”
Captain Stewart glanced at the housekeeper in the doorway and his brow furrowed. The expression made an uneasy tickle on the back of Lucy’s neck.
“The colonel is still in London,” Captain Stewart said. “He . . . couldn’t get away.”
“No,” Lucy said in a firm voice, pushing away her unease. This captain was obviously mistaken. “That isn’t right. He wrote to me from Calais a month ago. He is coming any day now.”
The captain winced. “I am sorry, Miss Breckenridge. It is the truth. He regrets deeply that he won’t make it home in time for Christmas.”
Mrs. Fraser put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder.
Lucy’s throat got tight, and her eyes burned. Her thoughts felt jumbled as she tried to understand what he meant. “But he promised.” Her voice came out sounding strangled. She swallowed, blinking hard and looking between the two of them. “Father always keeps his promises.”
“The circumstances requiring him to remain are, unfortunately, out of his control,” Captain Stewart said.
“He wishes he could be here, miss,” Mrs. Fraser said in a gentle voice.
“Then why did he not write to me himself?” Lucy’s disbelief was turning to anger. “Why did he send you, a stranger, to tell me the news?” This couldn’t be so. He’d remained in France since the war ended six months earlier to station troops and see about the business of peace. The business of decommissioning military personnel and sending them home must surely be finished by now. And could the colonel not write further reports from home?
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