An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  It was clear what he was doing. Their mothers were obviously trying to foster a courtship between them. Both women were marriage-minded, unlike Arabella herself. And Richard had clearly resolved not to fall in with their matchmaking schemes. Even so, he’d injured her pride. She reminded herself that she was considered pretty, accomplished, and from an upstanding old family, even if her brother was something of a rattle. A lovable rattle, in her point of view.

  And Penelope was the best sister a girl could have—a dear, loyal sister. Even though Pen was a few years older and certainly taller, she was also more vulnerable. Aware of how she stood out, self-conscious of her size and less-obvious femininity. Arabella had felt protective of her ever since the neighborhood boys began teasing her as an adolescent. Insults—veiled and not—seemed to roll off their brother, Cyril, like water from a duck, but Penelope took them to heart.

  It was not the first time Arabella had slapped Richard Brockwell. As youths at a family party years ago, Richard had called Penelope a “horse godmother,” slang for a large, masculine woman. And Arabella had stalked up to him and slapped his face. Hard.

  The man would never change. If anything, he had grown worse.

  Arabella had not wanted to come to this house party, but her mother had eagerly accepted the invitation for them when she learned Horace Bingley, Nicholas Ashford, and Richard Brockwell—three most eligible gentlemen—had also been invited.

  Penelope had also seemed conflicted about the invitation and wondered aloud if they could not simply stay home at Broadmere and enjoy a quiet Christmas together.

  Arabella understood her sister’s reluctance. Horace Bingley had once expressed interest in Penelope, but more than a year had passed, and he had not acted upon that interest.

  Their mother had argued, “But my dears, Lady Barbara has assured me that Richard will be coming to Brockwell Court for Christmas this year. We don’t want to miss an opportunity to renew our acquaintance with him.”

  Do we not? Arabella had thought cynically. But aloud she’d said, “Lady Barbara always says that, and he never comes.”

  That’s right, Arabella had reminded herself. Richard would probably not be there, so why not go? Justina was great fun, and Sir Timothy and his wife, Rachel, were charming. And the dowager Lady Brockwell was always kind to her too, though she knew others found her intimidating.

  Penelope had said, “Mamma, Cyril may not be comfortable spending time at Brockwell Court.”

  “Comfortable? Why should he not be comfortable?” Now that Cyril had married, their mother seemed ready to forget that Justina jilted him. She flipped her wrist. “Oh, he may have briefly considered an alliance with Miss Brockwell, but that is all in the past. He and his wife are due home a few days before the party begins. I am sure they will wish to join us.”

  Cyril would want to go, Arabella had guessed. Perhaps in part to show off his blissful wedded state, when Justina was not yet betrothed. No, that wasn’t likely. Her brother was not spiteful in the least.

  Penelope had twisted her long fingers. “I can see what you are thinking, Mamma. But forcing Horace and me into each other’s company will only be awkward for everyone. I doubt he will act now, if he hasn’t already.”

  “Well, it will be a good opportunity for both of you girls. You should keep your options open. At Brockwell Court, you will spend time with Horace, Richard, and Nicholas Ashford as well.”

  Arabella shook her head. “Mamma. Mr. Ashford is clearly in love with Justina Brockwell.”

  “Perhaps, but they are not yet engaged.”

  “Only because her mother has asked them to wait until Justina comes of age. And Justina wants him to become acquainted with dear Richard first, and the selfish man can’t be bothered to come home.”

  Then their mother had sweetened the bargain by mentioning something sure to sway Penelope to her side. “And Sir Timothy will no doubt take you and Cyril shooting.”

  “Shooting?” Penelope perked up at the word. “I would enjoy that, of course. And I would like to visit Locke stables while we’re in Ivy Hill. Cyril and I have our sights set on a pair of matched hunters.”

  Their mother beamed. “There, you see? It’s perfect. Something or someone for everyone.” Here, she had sent Arabella a knowing smile.

  In the end, Arabella acquiesced. Her mother and sister wished to go, and she would not suspend their happiness for the world. Especially at Christmas.

  She had consoled herself by recalling that Brockwell Court was located in the village of Ivy Hill, whereas Broadmere was a rural country estate. She remembered Justina talking with fondness about Christmases in Ivy Hill, with caroling and church bells, fetes and dancing. And best of all, the Brockwells were always charitable at Christmastime. When she’d pressed for details, Justina had described preparing baskets of food for village widows and other poor families, visits to the almshouse, and gifts given to the servants on Boxing Day. Perhaps she could also participate in those activities while they stayed at Brockwell Court. That notion appealed to her very much indeed.

  In her heart of hearts, what Arabella really wanted was to live in London with Aunt Genevieve and join her charity work. Her mother, however, would not countenance the idea. Aunt Gen’s bluestocking, campaigning ways were all right for a spinster of a certain age, but not for her beautiful, accomplished younger daughter. Her mother had set her hopes on Arabella marrying soon and marrying well. She and Papa had been so happy together, and she wanted that for her children too, she argued. Was it not only natural that she should?

  But Arabella was determined not to be pressured into marriage. Only the truest love would convince her to wed. And she would certainly never marry a man who would not remain faithful to her, a man she could not trust.

  Thanks to a modest inheritance coming to her, she did not need a husband to support her. She was blessed with the freedom to choose to marry or not, a luxury denied to many women. And she planned to make the most of that blessing. She longed to make her life count, to make a difference.

  In the meantime, Christmas at Brockwell Court might give her an opportunity to serve her fellow man and enjoy a small taste of Aunt Gen’s life.

  She had thought, Now if only Richard Brockwell does not come home and spoil things. . . .

  But he had.

  No, Arabella decided anew. She would not let Richard Brockwell spoil her Christmas . . . or her plans.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  In the morning, Richard awoke, his head pounding.

  Not only was his head pounding, but someone outside was pounding as well. Could a man get no rest? So much for the quiet of the country!

  With a groan, he rolled out of bed and slogged to the window, ready to beg mercy from whichever gardener was hammering stakes, or whichever kitchen maid was beating some poor chicken senseless. Folding back the shutters, what he saw sealed his lips.

  In the orangey-grey light of a December morning, a group of elderly women marched up the drive, their leader beating a pot with a wooden spoon. Some wore black capes and others red cloaks. They descended upon Brockwell Court like a flock of crows and redbirds. These were the beldames of the parish, bent and withered, going from house to house, starting, apparently, with the great house. Richard glanced at the mantel clock with a sigh. Not yet eight.

  A double rap sounded, and his door creaked open behind him. David Murray entered his room, hurriedly dressed except for coat and cravat, no doubt drawn by the hubbub.

  “What is going on?” he whispered.

  “Good morning. You’re just in time to witness an old custom in rural England.” Richard gestured toward the window.

  Crossing the room, Murray looked out at the women. His brow furrowed. “Beggars?”

  “Not on St. Thomas Day. On this day, it’s considered their due. Poor widows go mumping. In some places it’s called Thomasing or a-gooding. They collect small gifts of money or food to help them celebrate Christmas.”

  “Interesting . . .
” David murmured.

  Below, the front door opened, and Sir Timothy and Rachel stepped out.

  The group leader said, “Here we come a mumpin’. Pray, remember St. Thomas Day and give us something toward the keepin’ up o’ Christmas.”

  Then she led out in a warbling treble voice, and all the women joined her in singing:

  “Little Cock Robin sat on a wall,

  We wish you a merry Christmas, and a great snowfall,

  Apples to eat and nuts to crack,

  We wish you a merry Christmas, with a rap, tap, tap.”

  Richard winced. Enough already with the rap, tap, tap!

  Then a solemn procession began with each woman approaching the lord and lady of the manor. Sir Timothy produced a sixpence for each from a leather purse, while Rachel handed out small bags—likely filled with wheat and parcels of tea, both of which were very dear.

  In return, the women gave their benefactors sprigs of mistletoe or holly they had gathered.

  Rachel smiled and announced, “Thank you, ladies. Please do come around to the kitchen. Cook has some cake and a cup of hot coffee for each of you.”

  “That reminds me,” Murray said at his elbow. “I’m starving. All right if I finish dressing and head down to the breakfast room, or shall I wait for you?”

  “You go ahead.”

  Richard glanced down at the mumpers once more. A woman at the back of the group looked up. With her hooded cloak, he’d not seen her face earlier, but now he recognized her with a jolt. Mrs. Reeves. The mother of his boyhood friend, Seth, and his pretty sister, Susanna.

  The past came rushing back. Oh, the many happy hours Richard had spent in their cottage as a lad. Honeycroft had been a place of warmth, acceptance, and good-natured teasing, a welcome refuge after the chilly propriety and expectations of Brockwell Court. Richard had enjoyed sharing meals with the Reeves family, joining in with their jokes and laughter. At least until Seth had enlisted and Richard had spoiled things with Susanna.

  But there was no laughter in Mrs. Reeves’s face today. How the years had aged her. Richard knew Seth had died during the war, as so many had, and he’d heard Susanna had married one of his shipmates and gone to live on the coast somewhere. Richard had not given their mother much thought in recent years, but how shocking to see her now, among Ivy Hill’s poor widows. Her husband had died a few years before, but he’d assumed Mrs. Reeves had gone stoically on, managing fairly well on her own.

  Regret washed over him, and then a foreign feeling rose in his chest—the desire to help her. He turned away from the window, trying to stifle the urge by focusing his mind on the important question of which coat to wear instead.

  Wally looked up at him from the little cushion bed Richard had packed in his trunk.

  “What do you think, Walt? The green? The blue? The dark blue?”

  Wally barked.

  “Dark blue it is.”

  Later that morning, after Rachel bid the last of her elderly visitors farewell, she prepared for the next project on her list. Miss Arabella, Justina, and Lady Barbara joined her in the servants’ hall to assemble the baskets they would soon deliver to the residents of Ivy Hill’s almshouse and to other housebound villagers.

  Willow baskets, from Belle Island in Berkshire, were spread out on the large table. Together the women began layering in the contents: a small lap rug, two handkerchiefs, and a pair of warm, knitted gloves for each, all made by volunteers of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society over the last few months with material donated by the local dressmaker.

  There were also a few candles purchased from Mrs. O’Brien, the local chandler. And finally, parcels of tea, a mincemeat pie, a wedge of Barton cheese, and a small jar of jam made in the Brockwell Court kitchen. A fresh quartern loaf from Craddock’s bakery would be added just before delivery.

  The women moved around the table, laying in the offerings one by one, chatting companionably as they did so.

  Arabella asked if she might tie ribbon bows on each to add a festive touch. The idea was met with eager approval. Rachel happily collected the appropriate ribbon from the sewing room, and the baskets were soon festooned.

  Richard poked his head inside. “Ah. Wondered what was going on in here. Sounded like a henhouse or a political rally.”

  He grinned and turned to go, but Justina called him back.

  “Don’t wander off, Richard. We are going to gather in the drawing room to practice caroling later.”

  “Caroling? Egad. Not I.”

  “Why not?”

  “Someone must stay home to receive other carolers. It wouldn’t do for the great house to be empty when the singing zealots come ’round.”

  Every year, the manor received carolers who came singing “Here We Come A-wassailing,” “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In,” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” They were rewarded with warm drinks or food—the requisite wassail or figgy pudding from Mrs. Nettleton’s kitchen. But this year, Rachel had decided the Brockwell family and their guests would sing carols as well, in their home and at the almshouse.

  Rachel felt her brow knit in mild concern. “I wonder if we have enough sheet music, considering all our guests. Perhaps I should send someone to the printer in Wishford.”

  “I’ll go,” Richard said. “That will be my contribution to the outing.”

  Rachel was surprised at his offer, and it seemed clear the others were too.

  “Very well, Richard. Thank you.” Rachel wrote down the hymns and song titles she wanted, adding, “We prefer the stationers in Salisbury—the printer there is far more pleasant—but Wishford is closer.”

  He glanced at the list. “And if he hasn’t these, I assume I should pick up whatever sailor ditties he has in stock?”

  Justina laughed. “Oh, Richard. You have such a ridiculous sense of humor! Don’t worry, ladies, my brother is only teasing us.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Rachel murmured, feeling far less convinced.

  Eager for a respite from his mother and her houseguests, Richard eagerly prepared to set out on his errand. At the last minute, he decided he ought to invite Murray, thinking his friend might like to accompany him. But when he stopped at his room, he found Murray softly snoring atop atop his made bed with a book of verse tented over his chest. Richard decided to let him sleep.

  He put on a greatcoat over his dark blue wool and donned a beaver hat. He wrapped a warm muffler around his neck, and a miniature one around Wally’s neck, the dog as eager to be out of the house as he was. Then Richard went to the stables and asked a groom to harness up the curricle. They did not keep horses or carriage in London, which was a pity. Therefore, he had not driven in some time. Richard hoped he could still handle the ribbons with skill. In his younger days, he’d been known as quite a whip, and hopefully the old touch would return to him.

  In his brother’s curricle, Richard and Wally drove down the hill and followed the road into Wishford. The wind bit Richard’s cheeks. Still, the fresh air and quiet were a relief. Wally seemed to relish the ride as well, paws on the front panel, wind blowing the hair from his eyes, tongue lolling happily.

  The day was cold and crisp, the sky frosty blue. Richard could see his own breath, and the horses’ besides. The trip was only a few miles, and with relief he soon reached Wishford, already thinking of stopping at the Crown to warm up before heading back.

  He drove to the livery and left the horse and curricle in the care of a groom, then he and Wally strode around the churchyard and down the street until he came to the print shop. The sign read:

  FRANCIS KNOCK

  LETTERPRESS PRINTER

  MUSIC SELLER & STATIONER

  FARMERS’ ACCOUNT BOOKS & LEDGERS

  Richard looked through the window and saw Jamie Fleming, the young apprentice they’d met on the journey from London. He was returning metal type slugs to their appropriate slots in the drawers, his tongue tip protruding in concentration as he did so. Nearby, a broad-shouldered man stood at a wood
en press, dabbing ink over the set type with sheepskin inking balls before positioning the paper and sliding the frame under the press, pulling the handle to make the impression.

  Thin ropes like a laundress’s clothesline crossed the interior, pages clipped to them and hanging to dry—broadsheets, advertisements, and more.

  Seeing him through the glass, Jamie waved vigorously, accidentally knocking a few slugs to the floor. In a flash, the man stalked toward him, reeled back his hand, and—

  Richard shoved open the door just as Jamie protectively covered his head. The door slammed against the wall with a bang, shaking the glass. Startled by the intrusion, the printer hesitated, then dropped his hand.

  The big, brawny man had a belly gone to fat. He needed a shave, and it was only early afternoon. His hands were ink stained and curled as though habitually fisted.

  Richard decided a civil approach might be best. Seeing Jamie’s face redden in humiliation to be caught cowering, he thought an indirect approach might be merciful to the boy as well.

  “Good day, my good fellows,” Richard called out cheerfully. “Mr. Knock, I presume?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I hope I have not come at a bad time?”

  “No, sir. Just training my clumsy apprentice here.”

  Richard looked at the boy as if just noticing him. “I say, is that you, Jamie? Jamie Fleming? What a pleasure to see you again, my boy.”

  “An-And you, sir.”

  Richard beamed at the printer. “I hope you realize what a treasure you have in young Fleming here, Mr. Knock.” Richard noticed bruises on the boy’s arms. From his fall from the coach, or had the printer inflicted them?

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You are acquainted with this boy?”

  “I am indeed. We are fast friends. But pray forgive me.” Richard bowed. “Richard Brockwell of Brockwell Court. Heard of it?” He did not normally flaunt his connection to Ivy Hill’s most prominent family but in this case thought it might be effective.

  “’Course I have. Everyone knows Brockwell Court. What can I do for you, Mr. Brockwell?”