A Victorian Christmas (22 page)

“But that’s marvelous!” Her olive green eyes brightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And I’ve been assigned to polish the silver in the parlors.” Agitated, Gwyneth rose and began to set out the meal they had received from Brackendale Manor. Lamb! When was the last time she’d eaten mutton? Oh, why was the earl doing this?

“Silver polishin’s t’ easiest work in t’ house,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “How lovely for you!”

“And my wages are increased.”

“Wonderful!”

“No, Mum. You don’t understand.”

“I can see that, my dear.” After she’d offered the blessing for the meal, Mrs. Rutherford fell silent.

Gwyneth picked up her fork, wondering how she could explain the whirlwind that had blown through her life since that evening in the kitchen with the earl of Beaumontfort. Her tidy, intimate world had been tossed into disarray like a haystack in a storm.

It hadn’t always been so. From the moment Gwyneth had stepped into the snug stone cottage with its tiny windows and blazing fire, she had felt at home. Just as every piece of sturdy white china nestled comfortably in the old Welsh dresser, so Gwyneth’s life had been ordered and tidy. On Mondays she baked, and on Fridays she washed. And every Sunday she and Mum walked to the village church to worship their Lord. Each day had its familiar, if sometimes lonely, routine. Gwyneth swept the floor each morning with the straw broom that hung beside the fire, and she nestled under the thick woolen blankets of her narrow bed each night. Nearby in her own bed, Mum would snore softly, a gentle reminder that all the world was at peace.

Now Gwyneth cut a bite of mutton and then another and another, unable to eat anything. Her stomach churned and her palms were damp. She wished desperately that she could similarly divide her thoughts into neat little squares that could be easily managed.

“Gwynnie.” The old woman’s hand stopped the knife. “T’ good Lord is never t’ cause of confusion and despair. What troubles you? You must tell me t’ truth. All of it.”

Gwyneth lowered her hands. “I explained to you about the night I served crumpets to the earl. Now, do you know he must have them every day for tea? And Mrs. Riddle does
not
appreciate my presence in the upper house, because I didn’t work my way up as the other girls did. I’ve been assigned the silver polishing, the rug beating—all the easiest work. Every night this wonderful food is brought to our door. And every day when I’m polishing in the parlor, the earl . . . well, he says good morning to me, and he asks after you, and he inquires as to the health of Sukey’s family, and he wonders whether I still think him crotchety—”

“Crotchety?”

“Yes.” Gwyneth stuck a bite of lamb in her mouth. “Crotchety.”

Mrs. Rutherford looked across at the sweet woman whose confusion was written clearly in her brown eyes. Mum gave a slight shake of the head and resumed her dinner. The forks and knives clinked in the silence of the room, while Gwyneth pondered her turmoil. How silly to be upset when all was going well. Had she no confidence in her Savior’s ability to guide her life?

“I understand what troubles you, Gwynnie,” the old woman announced finally. “T’ earl of Beaumontfort has taken a fancy to you.”

“To me?” Gwyneth gave a laugh of disbelief. “Absolutely not! He likes my crumpets, ’tis all. I gave the man a warm supper on a cold night, and he wished to reward me for my loyalty. But my promotion has not brought me joy as he had hoped. On the contrary, I’m resented and envied by the rest of the staff.”

“Do you wish to go back to t’ kitchen, then?”

“How could I? The earl would be most offended. Did you know that each evening I find twice the leavings I did before he came? Certainly he has companions who visit him for shooting and riding and playing at chess. He brought his personal staff from London, as well. But I’m quite sure they are not eating such great quantities of food. Mum, I believe the earl has ordered Cook to leave out more than usual.”

“Aha, ’tis just as I hoped and prayed then. Wee Willie has grown up into a fine man and an honor to t’ titles bestowed upon him when his dear father passed on, rest his soul.”

“Wee Willie?”

“T’ earl, of course. I knew him when he was but a lad. You must accept t’ blessin’ God has chosen to lay upon you, my dear. Soon enough t’ staff will come to accept you in t’ upper house, you’ll see.”

With a yawn, Mum set her plate in the dish pail and started for the narrow bed across the room. It was just past seven o’clock, and Gwyneth knew there would be long hours of silence ahead. Too much time to think lonely thoughts.

She lifted another bite to her lips, but her focus remained on the flickering fire. For an instant she imagined she’d caught sight of the exact spark that twinkled in the earl’s blue eyes when he strode into the parlor each morning. He always spoke to her so briefly, and her replies to him were properly humble and sparse. Yet their few words had become the high point of each day to her. How could she have allowed it?

Dear Lord,
she poured out,
’tis not the resentment of the staff
that troubles me, is it? ’Tis not the easy labor and extra food. ’Tis
him. For the first time since my husband died, I feel alive in the
presence of a man. Oh, God, why does it have to be the earl?

“I’ll just put out t’ lamp, my dear,” Mrs. Rutherford called. “We don’t want to use up what’s left of our oil.”

“No, Mum.”

“Would you fetch a bit more coal for t’ fire? ’Tis so chilly—” She paused, listening. “Now who could be outside at this hour?”

At the sound of a knock on the door—though she had no idea of the nature of their visitor—Gwyneth’s heart clenched tightly, and her hand flew to the stray tendrils that had slid from her hair.

“Glory be,” Mrs. Rutherford said as she peered through the small window beside the door. “’Tis wee Willie himself!”

CHAPTER TWO

Gwyneth set her knife on the plate and wiped her hands on her apron as Mum opened the front door. Oh, she was a mess—her fingers wrinkled from the starchy potato water, her sleeves damp to the elbows, her skirt hem muddy from trekking through the village with the night’s leavings. She had no gloves, no time to do up her hair, and she felt quite certain she smelled of onions. Why now? Why him!

“Mrs. Rutherford?” the earl’s deep voice sounded across the room.

“She’s just finishin’ her dinner,” the older woman answered. “I shall be happy to—”

“But it’s you I’ve come to see, of course,” he cut in. “I had spoken with Gwy—with your daughter-in-law of your earlier life here in Cumbria, Mrs. Rutherford. I wondered if you might be the dear woman I recalled from my boyhood rambles. And indeed you are. You used to feed me strawberry tarts in the summertime and strong tea in the winter. Do you remember?”

“Aye, of course,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “How could I forget wee Willie and his two great hairy dogs muckin’ up my fresh-mopped floors? Do come inside out of t’ chill, boy.”

Gwyneth rose from the table as Beaumontfort spoke for a few moments with his equerry, who waited outside. Why had the earl come to their cottage? Couldn’t she at least have worn her blue dress on this day? Heavens, she was in her stocking feet!

Oh, Father, he didn’t come to see me. Please keep my thoughts
in order. Please help me to be humble and to think of Mrs.—

“And I wished to see your daughter-in-law, of course,” the earl said, stepping into the house and shutting the door behind him. “Gwyneth has been a most welcome addition to my household staff, Mrs. Rutherford. I have never seen the silver gleam as it does these days.”

Gwyneth flushed and attempted one of her hopeless curtsies. No one taught children such manners in a Welsh mining village. Her legs felt as tangled and limp as a bowl of hot noodles. She drew the best chair before the fire for the earl.

“My lord,” she managed. “Welcome to our cottage.”

“Thank you, Gwyneth.” His blue eyes met hers, and she recognized the spark she had seen in the fire. “I was just down from the House having a look round the village, as you recommended.”

“Oh, sir, I didn’t—”

“A most useful suggestion.” He gave her a smile that carved gentle lines in his handsome face. “I have called on the family of Sukey Ironmonger. It appears her children are well and her husband is on the mend. He plans to return to his labors at the smithy tomorrow, and Sukey will return to my kitchen. I believe we shall have fresh bread again at Brackendale.”

Gwyneth tried another little bow. “Many thanks for your generosity, my lord. The extra leavings have been greatly appreciated.”

“And t’ lovely meals here at t’ cottage, too,” Mrs. Rutherford put in. “You’re too kind.”

“Not at all, madam. Do be so good as to join me here by the fire, both of you. I should like to discuss a certain matter of some urgency.”

Gwyneth shot her mother-in-law a look of desperation, hoping she might be allowed to go out for more coals or something. But Mrs. Rutherford, her face wreathed in smiles, settled in the rocking chair and picked up her knitting as though this were merely a neighbor come round for a spot of tea. Willing her heart to slow down, Gwyneth took the only other chair in the house.

How fine the earl looked in his black frock coat and starched white collar. His dark hair, perfectly trimmed, framed the deep-set blue eyes that had so entranced Gwyneth. But it was his hands, his strong fingers ornamented with a gold signet ring, that reminded her of his stature and wealth. She must not forget the vast gulf between them.

“First, I wish to offer my condolences to you on the loss of your husband and sons, Mrs. Rutherford,” the earl began. “Your return to the village has been the cause of much speculation. I am told your situation in Wales grew bitter indeed.”

“’Twas I who was bitter.” The old woman studied the fire as her needles clicked softly. “When I first returned to England from Wales, sir, I felt quite sure t’ good Lord had forsaken me. I had nothin’ left. My few savin’s were lost to me, along with t’ only family I’d ever known.”

“My deepest sympathy.”

“’Twas a low time, but only because I’d taken my eyes off t’ cross of Christ. God Himself suffered greater loss than I ever did, and willin’ly, too. Slowly, I began to understand that He’d given me a new home and a new family. Here I am in t’ dear cottage I have loved all my life. And Gwynnie has become my daughter, my friend, and at times, even my mother—tuckin’ me into bed at night and makin’ sure I eat my vegetables.”

The earl looked at Gwyneth. “Well done, madam.”

“’Tis I who have reaped the blessings of my life with Mrs. Rutherford. She has always been so kind to me, and I’m happy to do what I can for her.”

“Which is why I have come with a proposal.” He shrugged out of his frock coat and cleared his throat. “I, ah . . . but I’m afraid I missed my tea earlier today. Might you prepare some crumpets, Gwyneth?”

“Of course, sir, at once.” She leapt to her feet, thankful to have something to do with her hands. “And tea, my lord?”

“Only if you’ll agree to return to your previous form of address.”

“Oh, sir, I—”

“William is my name. I should thank you to use it.”

“Yes, sir.” She raced to the shelf where they kept their dry goods, her mouth parched and her heart slamming against her chest. It had been so different between them in the kitchen at Brackendale House. Gwyneth hadn’t thought of William as the earl, and she hadn’t noticed his blue eyes or the way his skin looked just after his morning shave. She’d given little heed to the breadth of his shoulders or the warm timbre of his voice. He’d been merely a man with wet stockings and an empty stomach. Now she knew he had the power to turn her life . . . and her heart . . . upside down.

“I don’t suppose I could place a request for one of your strawberry tarts next spring, Mrs. Rutherford?” he was asking. “Seeing you again, I can almost taste them.”

She laughed. “Ah, wee Willie, you were a bold thing even then. Yes, I’ll make you a plateful of tarts—as long as you promise not to eat them all at a go.”

“No, madam, I shall be a good lad, as always.”

She chuckled, a welcome sound in the usually quiet cottage. “Whatever became of those two cheeky dogs that always roved about with you? Long gone, I suppose. You know, Mr. Rutherford and I had a fine dog in Wales.”

“A corgi, I understand.”

“Aye, Griffith was a dear dog. And do you still like to splash about in t’ tarns? Boatin’ and fishin’ and such?”

“I rarely have opportunity these days. I’m very busy. Even crotchety, some say.”

Gwyneth glanced across the room to find him eyeing her, a grin lifting the corner of his mouth. She covered the crumpet batter with a cloth and set it on the hearth. The man might be here another hour or more. She must relax. She simply must.

“And how is your new position suiting you, Gwyneth?” he asked as she sat down again. “Yardley speaks well of your services.”

“I’m grateful, sir. Mum and I have creditors in Wales, and the increased wages will be most helpful.”

“Good. Then you will not object to yet another increase in your income.” He leaned back and propped his feet on the hearth. “I shall explain. My brief illness this autumn necessitated a period of rest, and I was compelled to leave London before the culmination of the holiday season. Such a breach of custom has left my acquaintances in want of my company and my business colleagues feeling the absence of my usual generosity. All this has led me to the decision to host a ball this Christmas Eve. Guests will begin to arrive from London the weekend before. This will mean a good bit of work—organizing the staff, planning meals, scheduling entertainments, and the like. I am assigning the responsibility to you, Gwyneth.”

Her heart faltered again. “Me, sir? But Mr. Yardley is your butler.”

“Yardley is a good man, yet he’s getting on in age. He’s just buried his third wife, and he’s distracted. In fact, I believe his mental faculties are not in top form.”

“Oh, dear.” Gwyneth thought for a moment. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Riddle—”

“My housekeeper has enough work on her hands. I want fresh ideas. I want efficiency. I want loyalty, intelligence, and a keen wit. In short, I want you.”