An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  As Richard walked through the churchyard, he noticed several people lined up at Craddock’s just down the street. Glancing over at Rachel, he said, “I am surprised the bakery is open on Christmas Day.”

  Rachel nodded. “People picking up their Christmas goose. Craddock’s roasts them for those without a large enough oven of their own.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  On the walk back to Brockwell Court, Pickering’s second prediction came true. Arabella walked beside him.

  Reaching an icy patch, she hesitated.

  Richard offered his arm. “Allow me, Miss Awdry. Looks slippery.”

  “A slippery character indeed, miss,” Pickering teased from behind. “I’d watch out for that one, if I were you.”

  She grinned at the old man. “Oh, I am. Never fear.”

  Richard enjoyed the feeling of her hand on his arm. He could get used to this.

  “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “Lending you my arm? Not at all. Assuming you will give it back at some point, though not too soon.”

  “No . . .” She looked meaningfully back at Mr. Murray and Susanna standing close to one another in friendly conversation, her little boy on his shoulders.

  “Ah. Do I mind that? No, why would I?”

  He looked over and found Arabella studying him through narrowed eyes.

  He placed his free hand over his heart. “I am in earnest!”

  She nodded and smiled gently. “Then I am glad.”

  When they returned to the manor, everyone put away their coats, mantles, and muffs and reconvened in the drawing room until Christmas dinner was ready, giving the servants time to finish their preparations.

  Mrs. Nettleton and her staff put on quite a feast. Goose and venison with many side dishes, both savory and sweet—root vegetables, trifles, and rice pudding—followed by gingerbread and plum pudding filled with dried fruits, nutmeats, and every good thing, then basted with brandy and lit on fire.

  Finally, Richard set down his table napkin and leaned back in his chair, wishing he could loosen his waistcoat. He would not eat for a week after this. Or at least until supper.

  When they had finished, the servants would enjoy a well-deserved banquet of their own in the servants’ hall. Richard grinned to think of Jamie’s reaction to sitting down to such a feast.

  After the meal, Rachel stood and said, “I realize gift-giving among adults is not expected, and that some families wait to exchange any gifts until New Year’s or Twelfth Night, but since we are all together now, I have a little something for each of you.”

  Objections rose, and sheepish looks were exchanged around the table.

  “Just something small, I promise!” their hostess soothed. Rachel, an accomplished needlewoman, had embroidered handkerchiefs for everyone, with monograms for the gentlemen and intricate flower designs for the females. She handed them round, each rolled and tied with a ribbon.

  “Thank you, Rachel,” Richard said dutifully along with the others, but his heart felt like a burning coal within him. He had no gifts for anyone, had not even thought of buying gifts for a single person except Justina. He would remedy that. He was glad now that his family usually waited until the New Year to give gifts. That gave him almost a week to plan.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for St. Stephen’s Day, or Boxing Day, on the morrow. The servants would enjoy a rare day off, so Mrs. Nettleton had prepared trays of cold meats and cheeses, breads, and salads, which the family could eat at their leisure along with leftovers from Christmas dinner.

  Richard knew Mr. Paley would also be opening the church’s alms box and distributing donations given in the preceding months to his poorest parishioners.

  His family had already taken baskets to some villagers, but now they assembled gifts for their own servants and tenants. Those who wished to help gathered in the hall again, this time filling wooden boxes with fabric, gloves, foodstuffs, and always-welcome coins.

  Miss Arabella smiled brightly through it all, clearly enjoying every minute and adding ribbons, a few coins of her own, and little notes penned with blessings for the recipients.

  Richard overheard her mother say, “You see, my dear, you can do good right here in Wiltshire. No need to go off somewhere far away to do charitable things.”

  When Lady Lillian moved on, Richard took a step nearer to Arabella. In low, confidential tones, he asked, “Are you planning to go somewhere? I hope you don’t mind, but I heard your mother mention it.”

  Arabella hesitated, then said, “I long to go to London, to join my aunt in her work there. Mamma tries to appease me by saying perhaps we will go to Town for a fortnight during the season and I can attend a few charity events then. But she doesn’t understand. I don’t want to attend one or two charity events. I want to be part of something worthwhile. Help my fellow man. Make a difference in the world.”

  She certainly was beautiful when she spoke so earnestly, Richard decided. Though he liked her even better when she smiled.

  “I applaud you. And there is certainly no shortage of charities in the metropolis.”

  She sent him a wry grin. “Know from experience, do you?”

  “Oh yes. I know exactly which street corners to avoid.” He winked, and she laughed. Her eyes sparkled, and her pretty smile flashed.

  Yes, much better. Careful, Brockwell, before you lose your head.

  Later, when Richard was changing into evening attire, he asked Pickering about gifts.

  “I have ideas for everyone except my mother. Any thoughts? Did Father give her presents? I don’t recall.”

  “On occasion.”

  At the man’s curt reply, Richard eyed his father’s former valet with interest, then raised a topic he’d never before broached with him. “I’d wager he bought gifts for at least one woman in his life.”

  Trying to gauge his reaction as he spoke, Richard added, “You must have known about Bramble Cottage, probably long before I did.”

  Pickering hesitated, then replied, “Yes, I always knew.”

  “Did you approve?”

  “Not my place to approve or disapprove. In all honesty, I thought Sir Justin was making a mistake by not marrying Georgiana Haverhill in the first place, even if his family objected.”

  Richard absorbed that surprising bit of news. “Did you tell him so at the time?”

  “I tried. But he was not interested in my opinion. Rather like you in that regard.”

  “Actually, I would be interested in your views. Perhaps I would not have been in the past, but I am now.”

  Pickering slowly nodded. “I know you resented your father. And I don’t blame you. What he did to both your mother and Miss Haverhill was wrong. But I knew him as well as anyone, and I knew he respected your mother and even came to love her over the years. You may not be aware, away at university as you were, but the last few years of his life he spent less and less time in Bramble Cottage, and more and more time in Brockwell Court. He did not abandon his responsibilities to Miss Haverhill, whose entire life he’d uprooted in bringing her to Ivy Hill, but his heart shifted and settled here at home.”

  Richard’s own heart pounded at the thought. “If that is true, then I am sorry to have missed it.”

  Pickering nodded thoughtfully. “Your mother is . . . Well, she may not be the easiest woman in the world to live with, but she has many good qualities. For one, she is exceedingly loyal. In fact, that gives me an idea of a gift for her. . . .”

  In the drawing room that evening, Justina struck the first chord on the pianoforte, and they again practiced the few carols they planned to sing at the almshouse that night.

  Richard sat off to the side while the company practiced, as he had before. He flipped heedlessly through the Gentleman’s Magazine, but found himself singing along.

  “While shepherds watch’d their flocks by night,

  All seated on the ground,

  The Angel of the Lord came down,

  And Glory shone all aro
und. . . .”

  Suddenly, Miss Awdry was before him, a vision in blue velvet. “You do sing, Richard. And very well too. Do say you’ll join us. Your lower voice is an excellent accompaniment to Mr. Murray’s tenor, while Sir Timothy . . . Well, I really want you to come with us. We need you.”

  Her blue eyes, wide and imploring, drew him in, and he sank into them, forgetting everything else. She’d used his Christian name. And her voice echoed in his mind. “Richard, I want you . . . need you.”

  He had no intention of agreeing, but when he opened his mouth, the treasonous words came out as if of their own volition. “Very well. If you insist.”

  “I do!” She beamed at him. “Thank you. Everyone, Richard has agreed to come with us!”

  Had he? He blinked, as though coming out of a trance. Yes, he supposed he had.

  “Huzzah!” Justina exclaimed, and came over and kissed his cheek.

  He smiled at her but could not help wishing another female had kissed him.

  They all bundled up in their warmest pelisses, coats, and capes and carried candle lamps to illuminate their sheet music. Jamie Fleming, doing a favor for Mrs. Nettleton, brought up a basket filled with small mince tarts topped with a star-shaped pastry, and almond biscuits from the Brockwell Court kitchens. Rachel thanked him.

  Richard asked, “Would you like to come along, Jamie?”

  “Yes, sir. I would. Just let me make sure it is all right with Mrs. Dean and Mrs. Nettleton.”

  A short while later, they all strolled down the drive and up the High Street together, talking softly amongst themselves as they went. Justina and Nicholas shared one lamp, as did Horace and Penelope, Rachel and Sir Timothy, Richard and Arabella, and Murray and Jamie, who seemed happy to be in their company.

  Richard looked down at Arabella. “Are you sure you’re not too cold? We could have taken the curricle.”

  “I am perfectly well, but thank you for your concern.”

  He was concerned about her well-being, he realized. Dash it all.

  She smiled, adding, “It was kind of you to invite Jamie.”

  He nodded, then winked. “Let’s just hope he sings better than Timothy.”

  When they reached the almshouse, the carolers clustered near the door and, at Rachel’s signal, began singing, “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.”

  The front door opened, and the matron, Mrs. Mennell, appeared. “Please come in!” she beckoned. “Not everyone is able to come to the door.”

  So the little troupe filed inside, squeezing into the entryway. In the small parlour sat the same elderly women and single man they’d seen on their last visit, lap rugs over their legs, and some with teacups in their gnarled fingers. They all turned eager eyes on the inexperienced but willing carolers, who next sang “The First Noel.”

  As the last note fell away, the small crowd clapped appreciatively and Richard noticed tears in more than one pair of weary eyes. Something in his chest cracked, then loosened, and a tendril of joy sprouted in his heart.

  One of the women grasped Arabella’s hand. “You sing like an angel, child. You may come and sing for me anytime you like.”

  Arabella smiled at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Russell. I shall.”

  Their effusive gratitude for the modest offering both touched and humbled Richard.

  While Rachel handed round the mince tarts and almond biscuits, Richard stepped into the parlour and shook the old man’s hand.

  “We gents have to stick together,” he said with a grin. “What’s it like being the only rooster in a henhouse?”

  “A trial, in all truth.” The old man winked. “Tiring to fight them off night and day.”

  Richard chuckled at the man’s joke.

  They stayed to visit awhile longer, then walked home, singing softly as they went.

  Richard reached over and squeezed Arabella’s hand. “Thank you for making me go, Miss Awdry. I am surprised—I actually enjoyed that.”

  Her eyes shone by lamplight. “I am glad.”

  They returned to the house, and after shedding their coats, sat before a blazing fire, the massive Yule log and hazel branches providing cheery light and welcome warmth. The footman brought in hot spiced cider and punch, which further warmed the company. He soon returned with trays of Christmas fare: widgeon, black butter, sandwiches, mince tarts, and glasses of syllabub.

  Justina sat beside Richard and briefly rested her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming home, Richard. It was the best gift you could have given us.”

  Laying his hand over his sister’s, Richard stared into the fire and felt the smoke burn his eyes.

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  When Richard went downstairs the next morning, he nearly collided with Susanna in the passage.

  “Ah, Susanna. Um . . . welcome.” If he felt awkward, how must she be feeling?

  She wore a long bibbed apron over a plain grey frock. A white mobcap covered most of her dark hair.

  “Mr. Brockwell.” She bobbed a slight curtsy, avoiding his eyes and passing by—the actions of servant.

  It stung him.

  “Susanna . . .” he called after her, his tone carrying his hurt.

  She paused, her back to him. He saw her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, then she turned and resolutely strode back to him.

  Facing him squarely, she said, “I am here as a servant, not as a friend. At least I hope so, for if I am only here because of our past . . . friendship, then I shall give notice directly.”

  He winced. “There’s no need for that. Lady Brockwell sincerely wished to engage a nurserymaid. Upon my honor. Such as it is.”

  “Precisely.” Her eyes glimmered with sadness, then she released a heavy sigh. “You must treat me as any other servant in your family’s employ. Do you understand? This is only my first day, so I will speak plainly, and then we need not speak again.”

  “That seems harsh.”

  “Do you speak to the other servants? To Nurse Pocket?”

  He shuddered. “Never, if I can help it.”

  “There, you see?”

  “That’s only because she was my own nurse and frightened me to death as a child. Still does. But I speak to Andrew and Carville and Mrs. Dean and the rest. And Pickering and I talk all the time. Him mostly complaining, but still . . .”

  “But I doubt you chat up the housemaids. At least I hope you don’t.”

  He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I know you are angry with me, Susanna, and I don’t blame you. Can we not at least treat one another civilly when you’re here?”

  She hesitated. “Civilly, but no more.”

  Again her words, her distrust, stung him.

  At the sound of a door closing down the passage, Susanna took a long step back. She bobbed another curtsy, her expression falling back into servile blandness.

  “Very good, Mr. Brockwell. Will that be all?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, expecting Rachel or perhaps Mrs. Dean. Instead, Arabella stood there, looking from him to Susanna and back again, her face darkened by shadows . . . and suspicion.

  Since it was Boxing Day, Horace and Penelope rode off together to join a fox hunt being held at a friend’s estate in nearby Hampshire.

  Sir Timothy and Rachel were busy giving gifts to their servants and tenants, and receiving tokens and words of gratitude in return. Arabella had asked if there was anything she could do to help, and they’d invited her to accompany them.

  Justina and Mr. Ashford went to Thornvale to spend time with his mother. Mrs. Ashford had invited an old school friend to stay for Christmas, or she would have come to the house party as well. From what he’d heard about the unkind woman, Richard could only be thankful for small mercies.

  Richard went to Murray’s room but found him busy editing. Murray reminded him that he should be busy writing his next piece. Richard did work on revising his second novel for an hour but knew he could not put off much longer the task he least wanted to do—delivering J
amie back to Wishford.

  Taking Wally with them, Richard drove Jamie back to Wishford that afternoon, to make sure he returned well before Mr. Knock.

  They left the horses and carriage in the livery and walked slowly to the shop, Jamie quiet but resigned. Richard, hamper in hand, was not eager to leave the boy there but knew he must. There were, however, two things he hoped would improve the lad’s living conditions: a basket of provisions and a plan.

  At the shop door, Jamie turned to him and held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Brockwell. It was the best Christmas I ever had.”

  Richard pressed the chilled fingers. “You are very welcome, Jamie.” He handed over the hamper. “From Mrs. Nettleton. Keep it in the garret with you. It’s for you alone.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are all so kind.”

  Jamie waved in farewell and dug out the key.

  “May I come in for a few minutes?” Richard asked.

  The boy shrugged. “That’s all right, sir. I don’t mind being alone. It’s not even dark yet.”

  “This is not a social call. Wally and I have a job to do.”

  The boy bunched up his face. “What do you mean?”

  “Wally wants to investigate the garret. He’s heard rumors of a large rodent in residence.”

  Jamie’s eyes widened. “Really? But it’s almost as big as he is!”

  “Do you want the menace gone or don’t you?”

  Jamie unlocked the door and opened it. “I do, yes. If you think he is equal to it.”

  “You wound us both. Of course he is equal to it. It is what terriers like him have been bred for.”

  Jamie looked at the dandy little dog skeptically. Perhaps Richard ought to have foregone the bow atop his head.

  “He may not look the warrior, but he is one.”

  As if to refute Richard’s claim, the dog lay down and began licking a cobweb from his paw.

  “Well, he may have grown a bit fat and spoiled in recent days. But when he first came to live with me, he cleared the cellar of several mice and earned my housekeeper’s love forever.”