An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  Again Richard turned to go, trying not to succumb to Jamie’s forlorn expression.

  The printer called, “I didn’t say that. Don’t be hasty. I have to think.”

  “I’ll give you one minute.” Richard sighed theatrically, gazing around the shoddy shop. “Already I am second-guessing the idea of sinking my money into such a failing enterprise.”

  “I’ll take it. Cash on the barrelhead.”

  “Oh, very well.” Richard huffed and handed over several banknotes.

  At that moment, a familiar older woman threw back the door, which slammed against the wall, startling them all. She strode into the shop, her heels thumping like gunshots, her sharp gaze cutting from Richard to the boy and then settling on the man in the stained apron.

  “Mr. Knock?”

  “Yes, madam. How may I help you?”

  “I am Miss Arbuthnot, directress of the St. George Orphan Refuge. I have received a letter informing me that you are not at all a suitable master and have abused the privilege.”

  “Says who?”

  “As I said, I received a letter from a concerned citizen and have spent the last hour interviewing your neighbors and the local physician.”

  “I’ve read the contract,” Knock insisted. “There’s no stipulation for mollycoddling the lad.”

  “But there are stipulations for proper care, accommodation, and wholesome meals. None of which you apparently provide.”

  “He’s got a roof over his head.”

  Miss Arbuthnot pulled out the letter and read, “‘. . . a roof riddled with holes and a pallet wet and rotting. And if the boy is given more than a few scraps of food a day, I should be very much surprised. He is given more straps than scraps.’”

  Richard thought it quite poetic, but Knock frowned.

  “Whoever wrote that exaggerates. I’ve fed him while he’s here. Trained him. That’s worth a lot.”

  “And you were paid an apprenticeship fee for caring for and training the boy. You have not held up your end of the bargain, so the boy will not spend another night here. I intend to void the contract.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I can, actually.” She glanced at Richard. “Assuming we can get a local magistrate to approve the change?”

  “That can definitely be arranged,” Richard replied.

  Knock crossed his beefy arms. “Well, there’s nothing in the contract about paying back the fee should the contract be canceled.”

  The woman’s nostrils flared. “An oversight I plan to address as soon as possible. We will also begin verifying the character and reputation of potential masters in the future to ensure such mistreatment does not happen again.”

  A quarter of an hour later, details discussed and business concluded, Richard opened the door for Miss Arbuthnot and followed her outside.

  “We had better go and see Sir Timothy straightaway,” she said. “Before that man takes it into his head to accuse Jamie of absconding.”

  “I agree.”

  Extracting his small purse from his pocket, Richard said, “If you are in earnest about making changes to your charity, allow me to be the first to make a contribution.”

  She sent him a frosty look, her mouth a stern line. “If? Do I look like the sort of woman who does not stand by her word?”

  “Far from it.” Removing a banknote, he said, “My last ten pounds. All I have left after putting this scoundrel out of business.”

  She accepted it, eyes glinting. “Thank you. I shall put it to good use. But, if I may ask, don’t you need this for yourself . . . or for your favorite coffeehouse and bookshop?”

  Ah, so she had recognized him from London.

  He smiled. “Between us, I’ve had some good news. A publisher has given me a tidy sum for my novel, and is interested in my second one too, which I am revising presently.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, madam. You are the first to know.”

  She inclined her head. “I am honored.” Looking back toward the printer’s, she said, “After we call on Sir Timothy, I suppose I ought to go and visit my sister and nieces. The Awdrys. I imagine you are acquainted with them?”

  “Why yes, I am. In fact, they spent the Christmas holidays with us at Brockwell Court, but they’ve just gone home to Broadmere.” Realization struck. “Ah! You must be the Aunt Gen Miss Arabella speaks of so highly.”

  She nodded, confirming dryly, “Genevieve Arbuthnot, her mother’s bluestocking sister.”

  Richard chewed his lip, then added, “When you see Miss Arabella, please tell her I harbor no resentment and wish her all the best for her future.”

  Miss Arbuthnot looked at him with keen interest, her dark eyes alight and much too knowing.

  Jamie came outside, a threadbare valise in hand and fear in his expression. Wally came over to greet him, but the boy was too overcome to acknowledge the besotted creature.

  “Am I to start all over with someone else, sir?” he asked. “Or am I on my own now?”

  Richard squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “We’ll find a new situation for you, a far better one. Don’t worry. In the meantime, what do you say to a few more nights in Brockwell Court? Best food for miles.”

  “May I visit the servants’ hall again?”

  “Of course! Mrs. Nettleton will be happy to see you, as will Mrs. Dean and Pickering.”

  Jamie smiled with relief and bent to pet Wally. “Thank you, sir. It will be like Christmas all over again!”

  Arabella bundled up and walked outside alone, breathing in the brisk January air and the stillness of a winter’s day. Cyril and his new wife had arrived home last night, and Arabella’s ears needed a respite from the constant chatter and incessant laughter. She was happy for her brother and his bride, and for Penelope and Horace, but her own heart felt heavy. She needed solitude to think. To pray.

  The sound of horse hooves and jingling tack caught her ear, and she turned and saw a post chaise and four horses approach. They were not expecting visitors. Arabella watched, her curiosity doubling when the vehicle turned up Broadmere’s drive.

  Arabella glimpsed her aunt’s stern face framed in the window, and surprise and eagerness pulsed through her.

  She hurried over to greet her. “Aunt Gen! What are you doing here?”

  “Good day, Arabella.” The older woman accepted the groom’s hand and stepped down, smoothing the skirt of her plain carriage dress.

  Confused, Arabella said, “My letter could not have reached you yet. I just wrote to you yesterday, and here you are!”

  “I did not receive your letter. I am here because of a different one.” While the Broadmere groom directed the chaise to the carriage house, her aunt explained, “I received a letter about an apprentice our charity had sent to Wishford. A sweet-natured lad named Jamie.”

  “Jamie Fleming? Yes, I met him.”

  Her aunt nodded. “I met him myself while he lived in the orphan refuge. A good boy. But apparently the master is unsuitable.”

  “I agree.”

  Her aunt waved a gloved hand. “Well. More about that later. What did you write to me about?”

  “To let you know that I begged Mamma to let me go to London, and she has finally relented. However, she cannot spare the lady’s maid we share, and I cannot travel alone. But now you are here, I can travel back with you. No one could object to that!”

  Genevieve watched her closely.

  When her aunt did not immediately reply, Arabella found her voice rising in pitch. “You said you wanted me to help you, that I was welcome to stay with you in London.”

  “I did. You are,” her aunt soothed, patting her hand. “My dear, I would so enjoy your company and have no doubt you would be a great asset to the charity. There is only one thing I would like better. Your happiness.”

  “I will be happy.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “It is.”

  Her aunt hesitated a moment longer, then said, �
�Very well. Then you had better start packing.” The older woman looked up at the house and took a fortifying breath. “And I suppose I ought to visit my ninny-headed sister while I am here. Shall we go in before we freeze to death?”

  Miss Arbuthnot spent the evening with her sister, older niece, nephew, and his wife, while Arabella and the lady’s maid packed a trunk for London.

  In the morning, when all was prepared, Arabella kissed her family, and together, she and her aunt rode away from Broadmere in the post chaise.

  After a time of companionable silence, her aunt began, “I told you yesterday that I received a letter about the apprentice. But I did not tell you everything.”

  “Oh?”

  The older woman nodded. “The letter I received was well written. Strident, yet effective. And as my board of governors had sent the boy into the brute’s hands, I drove there to witness the mistreatment for myself. Unfortunately, I was too late.”

  “Too late? Oh no! Tell me Jamie was not seriously injured, or worse!”

  “He has been put out of his misery.”

  “No!”

  Her aunt frowned. “You needn’t look so shocked, Arabella. I only meant that another man has released Jamie from his oppressor.”

  Arabella released a sigh of relief. “Oh, good.”

  Aunt Gen looked at her, wiry eyebrows high. “Have you not guessed who?”

  Arabella shook her head.

  Genevieve Arbuthnot sighed. “You are your mother’s daughter. Silly creature. It was Richard Brockwell who wrote to me. I understand your families are well acquainted. He criticized the governors for not investigating the suitability of situations before subjecting a young person to an abusive man’s power. I did not like being reproved, nor being summoned, but he was right. It is an oversight in our procedures that we must address. I am grateful to him for bringing the situation to my attention.”

  “I am glad he did so. I am sorry I did not think to do so myself.”

  “He also donated his last ten pounds to the St. George Orphan Refuge.”

  Arabella felt her brows rise. “Richard Brockwell? Are we talking about my Richard Brockwell?”

  “Is he yours? I had not realized.”

  Arabella’s face instantly flamed. “Of course not, I simply doubted it could be Richard Brockwell from Ivy Hill. For the man I know would never do such a thing.”

  “Then the man you know has changed.”

  Had he? Was it possible? Arabella shook her head. “Last I heard, Richard Brockwell planned to return to London to continue his self-indulgent life as a gentleman of leisure.”

  The older woman shook her head. “The Brockwells are selling the London townhouse. I overheard as much when I called on Sir Timothy about the apprenticeship agreement.”

  Compassion squeezed Arabella’s heart. “That will be a disappointment to Richard. I wonder how and where he will live, as he has no income of his own.”

  “Well, thankfully, his first novel will soon be published, and he is currently revising a second.”

  Arabella turned to stare at her. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Arabella absorbed the surprising news and for several minutes gazed idly out at the passing countryside without actually seeing anything. Suddenly she recognized the landscape and frowned.

  “Aunt Gen, your driver has made a mistake and turned toward Ivy Hill. We should have continued south to Salisbury and taken the London Road from there.”

  “It is no mistake. I told him to drive this way.”

  “Why?”

  “There is something I want you to see.”

  “I have already seen Ivy Hill. I just spent almost a fortnight there.”

  “I know, yet I think something there will interest you. It certainly interested me.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “Mr. Brockwell used the money he received for his first novel to buy printing equipment for his friend. Business partners, he says, but I saw Mr. Murray’s name in the Gazette. He has declared bankruptcy, so I doubt he contributed much capital to the enterprise. Also, Mr. Brockwell and I convinced Sir Timothy to transfer the apprentice’s term to Mr. Murray, who seems an excellent man. He plans to settle in Ivy Hill. I have heard he is soon to be engaged to a local woman—an old friend of Richard’s apparently. The way I see it, Mr. Brockwell has rescued the boy and his friends in the bargain.”

  Arabella blinked, taking it all in, her mind shifting. What she thought she knew about Richard Brockwell tilted and spun like a globe on its axis. “Goodness . . .” she breathed. “I had no idea.”

  Aunt Gen patted her hand. “Well, my dear. A belated Christmas gift, I’d say.”

  Arabella nodded but silently thought, More like a Christmas miracle.

  As the carriage rattled up the rise and along the Ivy Hill High Street, Arabella saw the carter’s wagon heavily loaded with crates and several pieces of furniture. A few workmen were levering and pushing a printing press through the doorway, the frame of which had been removed to allow the contraption to pass.

  Among the workmen, she was startled to recognize Richard Brockwell, in a plain grey coat, straining and sweating with the rest. His dark hair had been tousled by the wind, perspiration glistened on his aristocratic features, and a black smear streaked one cheekbone. He had never looked more handsome.

  He said something to Mr. Murray beside him, and then smiled reassurance at the young apprentice, who carried a smaller load past them.

  “They are moving the print shop here?” Arabella asked.

  Aunt Gen nodded. “Did I not say you would find it interesting?”

  “You were right. May I step out for a few minutes to wish them well?”

  “Yes, if you’d like.” She knocked on the roof of the carriage with her stick, and the driver brought the equipage to a halt. The groom hopped down and helped Arabella alight.

  She saw Mr. Murray lean near the lovely young widow, Susanna, and say something in her ear. She smiled softly in return and slipped her hand into his. This was the nurserymaid Arabella had seen with Richard and had assumed the two were romantically involved. She’d assumed wrong. Susanna was clearly in love with his friend. How had she not seen it?

  Richard noticed Arabella and stilled. For a moment their gazes met and held across the distance. Then he walked toward her, wiping his hands on a handkerchief as he came.

  “Miss Awdry. I assumed you and your aunt would be well on your way to London by now.”

  “One should never assume, Mr. Brockwell, as I have learned to my deep regret.”

  He looked at her in bemusement and made no reply.

  Nervous, she repeated the same foolish question to him. “You are setting up a print shop here?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Yes. The building in Wishford was falling to ruin, but more than that, I knew Murray had reason to want to be here in Ivy Hill.”

  “And is that reason’s name Susanna?”

  He looked back at her. “It’s not my place to say, yet I do predict Rachel will soon have to find a new nurserymaid.”

  Arabella tilted her head to the side. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I could not be happier for them and am pleased to have had a hand in bringing two dear friends together. He is an excellent man, not a useless dandy like me.”

  She shook her head. “Hardly useless. I hope you don’t mind—Aunt Gen told me about your letter to her and about the publishing offer. I am so happy for you.”

  “Thank you. It is a relief, I admit.”

  “And of all the things you might have done with the proceeds, you chose to set up your friend in business?”

  Richard tugged at his shirt collar. “Don’t make me out to be a saint, Miss Awdry—for I am not. I am by nature a selfish creature and always shall be, though I strive against it. Mr. Murray and I are business partners.”

  She decided not to mention what she knew about his friend’s financial situation.

  He changed the subject.
“And you, Miss Awdry? On your way to London to devote yourself to good works?”

  He said it sincerely, without derision, which gave her pause. She nodded. “You know I want to make a difference in this world. That has not changed. I want my life to count for something.”

  He looked at her, as serious as she’d ever seen him. “Your life already counts, Arabella Awdry, whether you ever go to London or not. You are valuable and significant, just as you are. Your family loves you, and I . . . I would be remiss not to remind you of all the good you’ve done even in the brief time you were here—playing music at the charity school, assembling Christmas baskets for poor families, visiting the elderly at the almshouse, and bringing joy by caroling with your lovely voice, your lovely . . . everything.” He cleared his throat.

  Arabella looked down, face heating anew.

  The toes of his shoes neared her hem. His voice low, he added, “And let us not forget your life-changing impact on a certain prodigal who values you above all others.”

  Arabella glanced shyly up at him. “Oh, I think God was already working in that prodigal’s life. I may have just . . . helped Him along.”

  The two shared fond smiles. Richard swallowed, then said, “Well, I won’t try to stop your going, much as I’m tempted. I hope you find everything you seek in London.”

  Behind them the chaise door opened, and a voice called, “Arabella, it’s time we were on the road.”

  She then turned back to Richard. “I have to go.”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “Visit my favorite bookseller for me.”

  “I shall.” She looked into his eyes for a long moment, then resolutely turned away.

  Twelfth Night, or the eve of Epiphany, marked the coming of the magi. This year, instead of the usual masquerade ball, costumes, and revelry, the Brockwells’ Twelfth Night party became more of a celebration of not one but two engagements: Horace Bingley and Penelope, and Justina and Nicholas Ashford.

  Though disappointed that Richard was still unattached, Lady Barbara relinquished her objections to Mr. Ashford and had given her blessing for him and Justina to wed. The couple was delighted.

  Yet the most jubilant bride-to-be was Penelope Awdry. Rachel had never seen her look happier or more radiant, blushing and smiling and remaining near Mr. Bingley’s side. Rachel was pleased for her and Horace both and only sorry Arabella was not there to celebrate their engagement.