by Kate Pearce
A woman of little means could hardly sustain herself without protection, and the madam offered that in spades. But Frau Klaus was not like most proprietors of brothels. She took care of her girls, and for good reason. With the lull in the war, the number of men returning to Canterbury slowly increased—as did her income.
Not so for Ansell and his ragtag crew of surly pirates. Napoleon’s exile had improved foreign commerce, practically destroying the free-trade market. The danger of discovery had also multiplied, as more men in need of an occupation joined the customs office, endangering everyone who helped stow contraband.
The staircase creaked as she stepped onto the landing, announcing her presence. When she rounded another set of stairs, joyous laughter met her ears. She smiled. What would Christmas be without merriment? Without friends, both old and new, and loved ones?
Ansell… Her lower lip quivered.
“Och, Frau Ransome!” Frau Klaus smiled broadly a she emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of refreshments. The tall blonde woman with expressive brows added, “Do join us!”
The brothel owner moved ceremoniously through the parlor, a room filled with lavish settees, chaise longues, and overstuffed chairs in claret-colored velvet. Sconces and candles illuminated both the salon and the faces of those who directed their attention her way. A pianoforte—its fallboard raised—waited for dexterous fingers to play it in one corner of the room. Sprigs of holly and ivy decorated the frosty windowpanes. A kissing bough hung in the foyer, poised to surprise unsuspecting heads.
“I’m afraid you missed the taffy pulling, mein Liebling,” said Frau Klaus, dressed elegantly in green silk, a gold turban and a matching brooch with snow white feathers.
“Forgive me, Frau Klaus. Did I hear you correctly? I thought you said . . . taffy pulling.”
The peacock feathers she sported in her turban waved about her head. “I did.”
“Aye.” A buxom girl grinned with excitement. “Discovered the initials of our future loves, we did.”
“Really?” Astonished, Cassia said, “That sounds thrilling.”
The Yule log—the heart and soul of Christmas—blazed to life in the hearth, drawing her close. Couples gathered there, conversing round its heat. A yule candle had also been lit at sunset, its flickering wick prominently displayed between several overstuffed chairs. Careful not to cause a distraction, Cassia turned her back on the room’s embellishments and held her frozen hands toward the fire.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Did you all enjoy it? The taffy?”
“’Tis a Welsh tradition,” a dark-haired beauty sporting a missing tooth said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Taught to us by our new chef’s ladylove.”
“New chef?” Apparently, Cassia had missed more than parlor games while she’d kept vigil upstairs. Confused, she glanced at Frau Klaus, her suspicion rising. Given the madam’s frugal temperament, she had cause to wonder if this new chef could be an excise man in disguise. No matter how Christian it was to invite strangers into the brothel when no rooms could be found elsewhere, a smuggler could never be too careful. Kent had a long history of harboring the king’s men. Those owlers were keen in their attempts, too. Ansell repeatedly reminded her that a wise man trusted no one.
“What has happened to Chef Pierre?” she asked cautiously. “He has been in your employ for as long as I’ve been coming here. I beg you, tell me he is not unwell.”
“Och!” the landlady crowed, candlelight glimmering off her well-formed cheekbones. “How kind you are to inquire about Pierre. He is quite well, I assure you. No need to worry. I merely permitted him time to be with his family.” She moved around the room until she stood behind a man Cassia had never seen before. “Herr Lloyd—” she waved a hand toward the gentleman “—appeared intent on winning his lady’s heart with his superb culinary skills.”
“He’s won mine,” the same dark-haired beauty cooed, several bouts of laughter following from the other girls in the room.
“And mine.” George, the ten-year-old boot boy the brothel owner employed, raised a plate of food and gave Cassia a crooked smile. “Pierre left ginger biscuits fer us.”
“Very generous,” she said, happily rubbing her hands together. She gazed fondly at George. “I look forward to his biscuits every year.”
The boy blinked. “You must taste Chef Lloyd’s sausages, crempogs, and ba . . . bara . . .”
“Bara brith,” the chef finished for him with a generous smile. “It is the currant-studded bread I sell in my tea shop in Dover.”
“Bara brith.” George leveled a sausage at the man. “That’s it,” he exclaimed. “Chef made ’em fer us, he has.” He plopped the sausage in his mouth and chewed vigorously.
“I’ve never—” Herman, the second of the landlady’s errand boys, erupted into speech “—tasted anythin’ as tasty afore.”
Cassia smiled, then grazed her fingers over the needles of the fir tree that stood nearby. The madam insisted on having an evergreen indoors each year. It was an old country tradition Frau Klaus had brought from Hamburg and one the girls cherished every winter. She’d positioned it on top of a table—the Frau’s Tannenbaum, she called it—decorated with paper roses, apples, and tinsel. The pine scent her touch released had a pleasing effect on Cassia’s senses.
Would Ansell arrive in time to take part in the festivities?
“I look forward to sampling them.” She spun away from the tree and regarded the odd group gathered in the parlor. “Forgive my delay.”
“Do not fret, mein Liebling. The night is not yet over,” said Frau Klaus, understanding Cassia’s concern. “It is Christmas as long as the Yule log burns.”
But would it burn out before Ansell and his crew arrived?
Dread gripped Cassia’s heart.
“The night is still young, though many of our guests have already retired,” the madam continued, her voice full of compassion. Frau Klaus winked and held a tray of delectable treats out to Cassia. “There is still plenty of time for miracles to happen.”
“Aye. And babes to be born,” another brothel girl said, hugging a gentleman’s coat over her nightgown.
“A baby?” Cassia could barely contain her surprise. “Who is—”
“Merry, one of my kitchen girls.” Frau Klaus grinned as she looked over her boys. “The midwife is with her. She expects the wee one to arrive after midnight.”
That explained the lights she’d seen in the stable while on the widow’s walk.
“’Tis the season for love, and babies.” Chef Lloyd was a redheaded man with a pleasant smile and ruddy cheeks. He features became more animated as he lifted his beloved’s hand and kissed her skin. “Claricia and I—” he gazed into the young woman’s eyes “—can vouch for this. We have been pleasantly reunited after ten years separation.”
“Indeed,” Claricia bashfully admitted, her eyes twinkling. “I searched all over Canterbury for Randolph, fearing I would never find him before he returned to Dover. However, here he was, the last place I looked.” The couple’s love was undeniable as they gazed at each other with tender care. Cassia’s heart jolted, and her pulse pounded at their combined passion. “We’ve been given another chance. ’Tis a miracle.”
“A toast.” The chef popped out of his chair with infectious energy. “To second chances!”
Drinks were raised and several hurrahs shouted as a blended chorus filled the room. “To second chances!”
“Ah,” the new cook said. “But you do not have anything to drink, Mrs. Ransome. Would you like some Welsh tea?” Without waiting for her reply, he dashed to the tea service and poured hot water over dark loose tea leaves, turning to offer her a decorative, steaming china tea set.
Cassia accepted the porcelain teacup and saucer, appreciating the way it heated the tips of her fingers. “Thank you, sir.” She took a sip, relishing the smooth, well-rounded taste, and sighed. “It’s quite good.”
“Perhaps . . .” The landlady’s kindhearted voice so
othed Cassia’s nerves. “Perhaps we can coax you to share a story, Frau Ransome.”
She glanced around the room, feeling drawn once more to the rooftop and the widow’s walk, to Ansell’s long-awaited arrival. “I—”
“Tell us about the ships, Cassia!” George interjected with an excitement she found hard to resist. “Just like the old crowder does in Cornwall.”
“Yes!” Herman cheered. “A mix of story and song.”
Her heart beat frantically with compelling earnestness, and she was pleased the boys remembered the Cornish stories she’d told them in Christmases past. But no matter how much she worried about her husband’s journey to Canterbury, there wasn’t a bone in her body capable of refusing anything these boys asked of her on Christmas Eve. Who was she to deny them holiday joy merely because her insides twisted cruelly?
“Of course,” she said enthusiastically. Her time would be better spent immersing herself in storytelling than wearing a hole in the madam’s Axminster carpet. “But you must promise to sing along when you receive your cue.”
“We will,” Herman and George said, nodding vigorously.
“Very well,” she said with a smile. “I saw three ships come sailing in.”
“On Christmas Day,” the boys sang to everyone’s delight. “On Christmas Day.”
Cassia sat her teacup on its saucer, giving in to the sheer pleasure of weaving her tale. “Of those three ships, the first was the Melchior, a mighty schooner. All power and glory, it crested the horizon, surf foaming about its bow, dipping and cutting through the swells. Its golden masthead sported the image of a Polish king holding a royal scepter.”
Chef Lloyd and several other men guffawed.
“On Christmas Day in the morning!” This time, the boys were joined by several of the working girls.
“Seas thundered against the headland as a second ship sailed five leagues behind the first. It was the mighty German vessel, the Caspar.” Frau Klaus curtsied theatrically, taking great delight in the nod to her heritage. The entertainment she offered them contented her mightily. She continued, “The sea and sky melted to gray as the third ship, the Balthazar, a ship larger and far superior by far came into view.”
“Where were they going?” George, the hungry little rascal, asked.
“On Christmas Day,” Herman belted out.
“On Christmas Day—” the rest chimed in, not missing a beat “—in the morning.”
Cassia’s heart swelled, and seizing the moment, she asked, “What was in those ships, all three? Ships all three? Ships all three? What was in those ships all three?”
Chef Lloyd’s bass voice boomed loudly. “On Christmas Day in the morning.”
Cassia nodded courteously. “The blood of life flowed on all three. Barrels of brandy and red wine, incense and cigars—Portuguese—oil, chestnuts, and tons of tea.” She inspected the faces of those gathered round the hearth. “Oh, can you imagine? Can you believe the bounty needy people were due to receive?”
“On Christmas Day. On Christmas Day!” they sang.
She gazed into the fire, her senses hurtling back to Earth. Where was Ansell? What was he being forced to endure out in the snow? The harder she tried not to dwell on her worry, the more it haunted her. “Some walk,” she said, her passion waning. “Others ride, but these three ships were scheduled to arrive—”
“On Christmas Day in the morning!” The room was full of fine, good-looking people joined by storytelling and song. Here was the true spirit of Christmas, the reason for the season.
“Offloading their wares they got caught unawares, and were forced to disguise their bounty.”
“On Christmas Day,” the chorus was repeated. “On Christmas Day.”
Her heart clenched at the sight of their joyous faces, likening them to the way she felt when the crowder arrived in the local tavern to pass on wisdom. “Excise men forced them to flee for contraband they sought to seize. Hideaway now with kind landladies—”
A delightful shiver shot through her as she waited for their response. “On Christmas Day in the morning!”
“Canterbury’s bells shall ring when pilgrims vow allegiance to the king.” Her gaze settled on those she’d come to know and care for over the past three years. Tears of joy stung her eyes as she beheld their beautiful faces, and a maddening expectancy filled her breast. “Welcome. Welcome, our souls shall sing.”
“On Christmas Day,” they all harmonized.
“On Christmas Day,” a booming voice echoed from the back of the brothel.
Every head turned toward the kitchen doorway in anticipation.
Cassia’s heart hitched, her buoyancy rising. She knew that voice. She spun around just as Ansell entered the parlor.
“Let us all rejoice again. It’s Christmas Day in the morning!” His tenor carried throughout the brothel, pleasing Cassia to the fullest.
Relief flooded her, chasing away the shadows weighting her heart as he stood there as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Frost glistened on his dark beard. His cheeks were reddened by the frigid air outdoors, and his blue eyes glinted earnestly as he searched her out. He yanked off his hat. Their gazes locked. Time ceased to exist for Cassia. Ansell was hale and hearty. His stance made it perfectly clear that he’d suffered no impediment, no hindrance to warrant his delay. But it didn’t matter now. He was here. He was hers.
Cassia sprang into motion as the boys crooned the last stanza of the song, and she brushed against the fir tree, the piney, outdoorsy scent of balsam releasing in the air as she passed. Nothing could dampen her spirits now. Amusement touched Ansell’s eyes as she ran to him, paying Frau Klaus and her patrons no heed.
Ansell dropped the two burlap bags he had been carrying and caught her swiftly, laughing and twirling her in his embrace. “I told you our ships would come in, my love.”
“And I will never doubt you again.” She trembled as she sank into Ansell’s embrace, ever mindful of the dangers he must have faced to reach her. Grateful for the gifts he’d delivered, and feeling loved and cherished, Cassia sighed with relief. “Not on Christmas Day,” she said, “nor any day, in the morning.”
A Winter’s Tale
Kate Pearce
Rhiannon Jones drew her shawl tightly around her shoulders and stepped into the garishly decorated parlor where Frau Klaus had put up some kind of tree that smelled of pine. Carefully, she touched the pieces of beribboned gingerbread that swayed back and forth in the draught coming down the chimney. She had never seen such a thing before, and she wasn’t sure whether she liked it. Someone had lit the candles early and arranged the chairs in a circle around the sputtering fire.
It was snowing, and the usually busy thoroughfare into Canterbury was quiet and empty. Rhiannon knelt on the window seat and rubbed a circle with her finger on the window. The still whiteness made her catch her breath and reminded her of the hills and valleys of her Welsh homeland.
She leaned her forehead against the cold, brittle glass. She wasn’t the first girl to be charmed and ruined by a scoundrel, and she wouldn’t be the last. Her “lover” had persuaded her to leave her housemaid’s position in Carmarthen and follow him to Canterbury. He had abruptly abandoned her at a local inn when his money and her savings had run out.
She’d been lucky that Frau Klaus had seen her being thrown out into the street and offered her not only a home, but also an occupation, if she cared to pursue it. Two weeks had passed, and Rhiannon still wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t go home again—her parents wouldn’t want her back with her reputation sullied, and she couldn’t marry because she was no longer a maiden.
The other women at the brothel had treated her kindly, letting her act as the lady’s maid she’d been trained to be and offering up their varying opinions as to life in a brothel.
Frau Klaus came into the parlor and smiled at her. “Ah, there you are, Rhiannon. We have taken in several travelers stuck in the snow, so we will not be offering our usual services tonight, but will enjo
y our dinner and an evening of conviviality around the fire.”
“That sounds…very pleasant.”
“Do you sing, my dear?” Frau Klaus asked.
“Yes, of course,” Rhiannon replied. She hadn’t since she’d left home, but the memory of singing in chapel, and blending her voice with her family’s, brought a lump to her throat.
“Well then, perhaps you will honor us with a song this evening? All are welcome to participate.”
“Thank you.” Rhiannon curtsied. “And thank you again for all your many kindnesses.”
Frau Klaus cupped her cheek. “I couldn’t leave you out on the street, my dear, now, could I?” She took Rhiannon’s hand. “Come and have your dinner. We are planning to spin some taffy afterward.”
Later, after she’d eaten her fill, Rhiannon went into the parlor where one of the guests was busy entertaining the audience.
“Well done!” someone called out. Rhiannon instinctively moved deeper into the shadows as she recognized a Welsh accent. Could it be someone she knew? The shame of being discovered in a brothel overcame her as she pressed her body into the corner.
As the evening progressed, she learned that the Welsh gentleman was called Gareth Lloyd, and that he wasn’t from anywhere near her home. He was also fully occupied with the lady sitting beside him. She gradually relaxed, lulled by the laughter and the stories into imagining she was home again, and that everything was right with her world.
“Rhiannon?” She abruptly sat up as Frau Klaus looked directly at her and the clock chimed nine times. “Now that we have enjoyed our Welsh confections, will you sing for us?”