by Kate Pearce
“I don’t think you hate me, either,” he whispered.
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I don’t.”
His shoulders relaxed at her admission. “I love you, Princess Tatiana Elizaveta Denisova. Ana. Will you marry me?”
Tatiana brought her own hand up and rested it against his cheek. Her fingers were icy cold, but the heat of his skin warmed her all the way down to her toes.
“Yes and yes and yes!”
With a muffled groan he pulled them closer together and captured her mouth with his. The world slid away and Tatiana’s heart melted, just as if she were the snow maiden Snegurochka. She threw her arms around Aleks’s neck and kissed him with every ounce of joy in her heart.
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing.
The lilting melody of another carol filtered through the door from within the brothel but neither Tatiana nor Aleksandr paid it any heed.
It was a long time before they came inside from the cold.
The First Taffy Maker to the King
Deb Marlowe
“There’s no room to be had.” The porter appeared to be more satisfied than sorry. “The whole place is filled. Even the floor space in the bedchambers is claimed. This snow has stranded everyone fool enough to travel at Christmas-tide.”
Miss Emmaline Atkins chose to ignore the man’s smug tone. “Can you recommend an inn or hotel that might yet have accommodations available?”
The porter had already turned away, intent on tackling the pile of luggage stacked in the entry hall. “Did you not hear me? The whole place—the whole town—is full to the rafters.” He smirked over his shoulder at her. “I did hear tell one o’ the brothels is taking folks in.”
“A brothel?” she repeated faintly. Of course, a brothel.
She closed her eyes. It only wanted this. Bad enough to have to leave Lydden Park before the holidays and take up her new position at this time of year. And to have the girl her brother had paid to travel with her abandon her at Barham. But a blizzard? And a slick, snow-covered road. And Canterbury stuffed to the rafters and with no rooms to be let.
But a brothel . . .
“Not the best place for a woman travelling alone,” the porter sniffed. “But you’d best hurry and claim a place, lest you find yourself left out in the cold.” He hefted a trunk to his shoulder and pointed with his chin. “You’ll find Frau Klaus’s house around the corner, on Castle Street.”
“Thank you.” Emmaline took up her portmanteau and stepped back out into the biting wind. Snow swirled ahead, leading the way as she hurried through the night. When she turned the corner, she spotted the place right away. Every window was lit. Laughter and the sound of someone singing drifted out into the stormy night. It looked so welcoming.
Her steps slowed. Her brother would have an apoplectic fit.
Scowling, she pushed on. Her brother could go hang, as far as she was concerned. Righteous anger carried her all the way to the door of the establishment, but worry stalled her raised hand before she knocked.
What if Lady Ryley should get wind of this?
Hardening her heart, she gave a determined knock. Better a shocked employer than a night spent out in the cold and wet.
The door flew open nearly as soon as she touched it. A tall girl, dark-haired and pretty with pink-rouged cheeks, looked her up and down. “Frau Klaus!” she bellowed. “Here’s another one!”
Footsteps sounded and another tall woman rushed to the door, a smile lighting her long face. “Och! Come in, come in out of the cold!” She took Emmaline’s arm and drew her inside. “Nancy, close the door if no one else is there.”
The grip on her arm was light, the woman’s expression one of delight as her head bobbed in Emmaline’s direction. “I am Frau Klaus. You too, are stranded because of the weather?”
Emmaline stared a long moment, then blinked and abruptly curtsied. “Yes. Oh, do excuse me. I am Miss Emmaline Atkins. The town . . . everywhere is full . . . I heard that you might . . .”
“Yes, yes! You are welcome here, my dear.” She led the way into a parlor. “Come, you must be frozen through. Come and sit by the fire.”
Her mind gone as numb as her fingers, Emmaline followed. Yet, cold as she was, she barely noticed the fire. All of her attention was caught up by a . . . a fir tree, brought indoors and standing atop a table. It was covered in ribbons and gee gaws and unlit candles.
“’Tis our Tannenbaum,” Nancy said. “A tradition the Frau has brought from her home in the old country.”
“It’s beautiful.” Emmaline sat and smiled gratefully when the tall girl handed her a hot drink.
“This will warm you,” Nancy said.
She sniffed appreciatively. The tang of lemon and honey lured her into taking a long drink—and she choked on the fire burning its way down to her gullet.
“From the inside out,” Nancy grinned. Emmaline stared. The girl was missing a tooth, and the gap seemed . . . out of place, somehow, on the striking, friendly girl.
“Were you on your way to visit family for the holiday?” Frau Klaus asked kindly. “I fear this storm will keep too many families apart this season.”
“Oh. No, ma’am.” It was her brother who had sent her on her way and caused her to miss her last holiday at home. “Quite the opposite. I bid my family farewell and now I am travelling to London to take up new employment.”
“At Christmas?” Nancy sounded disapproving.
“Yes. My new employer wanted me settled in as soon as possible. Apparently, she throws a large party for Twelfth Night. I’m to help prepare the event this year.”
Frau Klaus sniffed. “A shame to take a young woman away from her home at this time of year.”
“Not very considerate,” Nancy agreed.
“I don’t think Lady Ryley was considering my feelings—and that is something that I must grow accustomed to.” Emmaline said it firmly, as much to herself as to the other women.
“Well, you are still your own woman today, my dear.” Frau Klaus stood. “And we are going to make the best of this strange and crowded situation we find ourselves in. You go on up with Nancy and get settled. Come down later and join us for some entertainment, won’t you?”
Emmaline stood . . . and paused.
“Genteel entertainment,” Nancy assured her.
“Of course.” Emmaline reached for her portmanteau—and her composure. She smiled her gratitude. “Thank you so much for taking me in. I’d love to come down—and I’ll be happy to help out in any way I can.”
The relief she felt might be temporary, but she welcomed it, and she followed Nancy with a lighter heart.
“Arrived this evening, you say?” The harried innkeeper kept folding linens, right there on the high desk in the entry hall. “No, no. I daresay we were the first place to fill up after the weather rolled in. We haven’t had room to offer anyone since last evening.”
Gareth Lloyd’s frustration must have shown, for the innkeeper paused long enough to cast him a sympathetic look. “The Three Feathers might well have taken her in, sir. I’d suggest looking for your young lady there. You’ll find it down at the end of this street.”
“Thank you.” Gareth took up his case and ventured out again. Had the fates aligned against him? Honestly, it had begun to feel so. He’d missed finding Emmaline at Lydden Park—but who could have expected that she’d be sent from home on Christmas Eve? Her damned brother had been less than helpful, but Gareth had questioned the servants and found which coach she’d taken—and raced after it. They’d stopped at Barham and he’d been only an hour behind them—and he’d found the surly maid who had deserted Emmaline, sulking because the worsening weather meant she still could not get home in time for the holiday.
He’d had to argue with the livery master and in the end, pay double to rent a mount, but he’d set out again after the coach—only to
find it and a good dozen more all emptied and entrenched at Canterbury.
How was he going to find her in a town of this size? Packed with refugees? He stiffened his spine. No matter. He would knock on every door in Canterbury, if he must.
“So tall?” The porter at the Three Feathers held out a hand. “With strange eyes the color of a good burgundy? Yes, she was here.”
“Has she taken a room, then?” Gareth asked with relief.
“No. We were full by the time she arrived.” The porter looked him over and Gareth noted that his gaze paused, evaluating the cut of his clothes, the fancy buttons on coat and cuffs and the quality of his boots. “Were you looking for a spot to pass the night, sir?”
Gareth stared. “I thought you were full?”
“We are—to young females traveling alone. But to a fine gentleman like yer—”
He never got the rest of it out. Gareth had taken hold of the man’s drooping neck cloth and twisted. “Where did she go from here?”
“Here now!” the porter gasped. “Let go!”
Gareth twisted again, and lifted until the man’s face started to turn red. “You had better pray that I find her. Did she say where she meant to look next?”
The porter glared.
“Did she?” He strained again until the man’s toes were the only part of him touching the floor.
“Kl . . . Kla . . .”
Gareth lowered him.
“I sent her to Klaus Haus,” the man snarled. “Just around the corner.”
Gareth dropped him, took up his case and turned to go.
“You’ll find her there with the rest of the whores,” the man called, retreating toward the stairs.
Gareth paused to shoot him a look of dark promise, then stalked out.
He found the place quickly, his impatience growing with each step. What would she say? How would she receive him? It had been so long, perhaps she didn’t still feel the same way. But she must. Grimly, he knocked. She must.
“Ah, another stranded traveler?” The woman at the door stood tall, her smile shone friendly with warm welcome. “Have you come seeking shelter, too?”
“Well, perhaps,” Gareth hedged. “Actually, I’ve come seeking a young woman.”
The woman’s face changed, her expression closing a little. “I see. Well, sir, it’s the holiday and our house is full of stranded travelers. Business is not as usual—”
“No!” he gasped. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m seeking a specific young woman. I’m looking for Miss Emmaline Atkins and I was told she might have taken shelter here.”
The woman grew wary. “Oh, and what would you be wanting with that wee mite? I warn you, she’s under my protection while she’s under my roof.”
“She’s here, then?” His relief flowed as vast as the ocean, and almost as encompassing as his excitement.
“Aye. But I ask again, what are you wanting with her?”
He straightened. “I’m the man who has come to ask her to wed—and this time I won’t be taking no for an answer.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Is that the way of it? Come in, then, for this sounds like a story I wish to hear.” She gestured. “Shall I have your case taken upstairs?”
He looked down. “No. If you please, could you show me to your kitchen, instead? For I mean to woo Miss Atkins—and the means to do it is right here.”
“You are being awfully brave.” The girl, Nancy, helped Emmaline fix up a cot in her room. “If I had a family, I’m sure I’d be blubberin’, had I to leave them.”
Emmaline sighed and smoothed a quilt over the cot. “The truth is, I don’t have much family left. My sister and mother were both taken by a fever years ago, although Father said that Mother’s broken heart was as much to fault for her passing.” She pressed her lips together. “He looked out for us, for my brother and I. As well as he was able, I suppose. But he was older than my mother, and I think his heart suffered the same ailment. He just gradually . . . declined. Now it’s only me and my brother left—and his new wife.”
“Ohhh . . .” Nancy nodded with understanding. “A new wife in the house. One who doesn’t care for the competition of a daughter of the place? Seen that one before.”
Emmaline sat down. She didn’t know if she felt grateful for the empathy or chagrin at being a cliché. She nearly felt the weight of the measuring glance Nancy ran over her.
“But—a girl like you? Pretty, with fine manners and blue blood? Why don’t you have a beau to get you out of this predicament?”
She rolled a shoulder. “I did have one once. A real beau. That is, one who cared for me, as much as I adored him.”
Nancy’s brows wiggled. “Handsome, was he?”
“So very handsome! He has Welsh blood, so he’s dark of hair and eye, with fine, lovely features.” She sighed.
“Well, somewhat must have been wrong with him. He ain’t here.”
“Not a thing! Not in my eyes, at least.”
Nancy shook her head. “Tsk. Yer da’ didn’t take to him, then?”
“No, neither my father nor my brother approved of him. He is a chef by training and very successful. He had his own thriving business—a tea shop in Dover.” She took a deep breath, full of remembrance. “He was lovely. We would meet in out of the way places and we would talk for hours. We took long walks and he would always cook for me—and bring along the most amazing treats.”
“And you didn’t grab him up?” Nancy sounded amazed.
“I would have. But we were discovered before I could break it to my father. And a man in trade—” Her eyes closed. “My family would not countenance it. I was to marry a title—or at the very least, a fortune.”
“Had someone else in mind, did they?”
“Yes. They turned him away. I should have fought harder. I tried to find him in Dover, but he’d left before I could get there. Hired away by a grand lord to cook at his estate. I . . . I thought my life had ended before it had truly begun. I stayed in my room for days, just wrapped in grief and anger. I . . . I said horrid things to my father.”
“Many a girl’s done the same, Miss, but I suppose none of us has ever died of a broken heart.”
“My father was furious that I’d even contemplated disobeying him. He went right out and agreed to a betrothal with Lord Norton. He was old enough to be a steadying influence, they said.” She rolled her eyes. “In truth, he was old enough to die a week before the wedding.”
“No!”
“Yes. I was in mourning for a year, too. And afterward, as my father’s health had begun to fail and we couldn’t go to London for a Season, my brother betrothed me to the local squire’s son.”
“He weren’t old too, were he?”
“No. Merely reckless. He was killed in a riding accident just weeks after the settlements were decided.”
“That’s quite a run o’ bad luck. A lost beau and two betrothals ended with the bloke dead.”
“Yes. And my misfortune was the perfect excuse for my sister-in-law to see me out of the house. She insisted my bad luck might affect her coming child.”
“Oooh. She must be a sharp one. Evil, but sharp.”
“That covers it,” Emmaline agreed. “And so, here I am.”
“And where is your beau, these days? The best one?”
“That’s the grand irony of it. The lord he cooked for likes to entertain, and Mr.— that is, my one-time beau, he became quite well known. He has been asked to take charge of grand balls and receptions. He’s even cooked for the Prince Regent! I think he must be happy with his path in life. He’s probably glad my family turned him away. But I do think of him often.” Her eyes drifted closed. “Christmas-tide is the worst, for we met at a Christmas party.” She straightened abruptly. “Oh! That’s it—how I can help with the entertainment! That first night, my beau taught us the Welsh tradition of taffy pulling on Christmas Eve.” She grinned. “We could do that here! Just think, Nancy, if we can manage it, I could help you discover the init
ials of your true love!”
Nancy looked skeptical. “I’m pretty sure I’m my own true love, Miss, but we shall see.”
“We met at Christmas. Our first, flushed feelings of infatuation are tangled up in the scent of evergreens, the taste of cinnamon and the heady waft of spirits from a brandy-soaked pudding.”
The audience before him sighed. Gareth was perched in the kitchen, at the end of the long, scarred oak table. Frau Klaus, now dressed grandly in a green gown set off with a green and gold silk turban, fluttered about the kitchen, putting thin, ginger biscuits on platters. The kitchen assistants, several of the house girls, the maids and the boot boy were all gathered, sneaking tidbits and listening to his story.
“The second time we met, she came into my tea shop.”
“No fool, that one,” Bríet, the Nordic-looking girl, said.
“I’d ‘ave sought ‘im out, too,” the maid at her elbow whispered.
“I was thrilled to see her again, to have another chance to get to know her,” Gareth admitted. “I held nothing back. I wooed her with my most fragrant teas and attentive services—and then I brought out the big guns.”
“Yes, you did!” a footman cheered.
“I seduced her senses with the richest Welsh tea I could concoct—with creamy Glamorgan sausages and crempogs sizzling straight from the pan. With rich, currant-studded bara brith and rarebit with the sharpest, most flavorful cheese sauce.”
“I don’t know what even one o’ those be,” a girl sighed, “but I know I want to try it all.”
“She stayed for hours,” Gareth told them with a grin. “We talked and talked, about books and music and our families and by the time she had to go, we had pledged to meet at a nearby village, where she wished to introduce me to the famous, Kentish gypsy tarts.”
“That’s one sort o’ tart we ain’t got here,” someone said.
“And we went on from there, meeting at out of the way spots, and we cemented our feelings for each other over long walks and laughter and good food.”