A Victorian Christmas (25 page)

The village lay in a dale just beyond the lake, its thatch-roofed houses wearing snowy white caps as stone chimneys breathed wisps of pale smoke into the evening air. To Gwyneth the little town seemed distant, almost as far away as the grand manor house reclining in luxury on the hill. Lamps had been lit in the parlors there, and no doubt the staff was in a flurry over the disappearance of the earl just at teatime.

“And what is so amusing?” William asked.

“Did I laugh?”

“Indeed you did.”

“I was picturing Mrs. Riddle in a grand kerfuffle. She’ll be wringing her hands and shouting at Cook to boil another kettle of water for your tea. Poor Mr. Yardley will send the dogs to track you soon.” She shook her head. “Oh, dear. If Mrs. Riddle learns you were out on the tarn with me, the fault will lie on my shoulders. And rightly so. I should be pouring Mrs. Rutherford’s tea, not skating.”

“You’re not exactly skating, Gwyn. You’re clinging onto my arm for dear life.”

As she gave a laugh of protest, he swung her away and put her into a twirl that nearly sent her spinning out of control. With a chuckle, he caught her close again and kissed her cheek. Then he tucked her under his arm and set off down the length of the tarn at a speed that sucked the breath right out of her lungs. It was all she could do to stay upright as his long legs ate up the ice, whisking her past another small island, around an inlet lined with snow-laden fir trees, and out again beyond the shadows of a hut built at the water’s edge.

“William!” she gasped. “I can’t . . . I’m going to . . . don’t let go!”

“Never.” He skated her around a bend and onto a stream that led away from the lake. “I used to fish this beck in the summer.”

“That hill . . . that’s where we picked strawberries last spring.”

“Which puts me in mind of your crumpets and jam. I can almost hear my stomach grumbling at the thought.”

As his stride slowed, she laid her head on his shoulder. How lovely to have a small tradition shared between them. The thought of baking crumpets for this man filled her with tenderness and longing. And those powerful emotions led her to the realization that all too soon he would be gone again.

“Why didn’t you come to Brackendale last spring?” she asked.

“Duty, of course. But I shall never miss another spring in Cumbria,” he vowed. “As long as I may pick strawberries with you.”

“Oh, William. Really, I cannot.” But even as she said the words, she ached for his promise to come true.

“And catch fish with you in summer,” he went on. “And roast chestnuts with you in the autumn.”

“And skate on the tarns in winter?”

“As long as it’s with you.” He was hardly moving forward now, as the stream narrowed and the sky darkened toward nightfall. “Gwyn, say you’ll return to the House. I need you.”

He stopped beneath the arching bare branches of an old oak tree. How could she turn him away? Yet, where could this growing intimacy between them lead? Not long after the new year began, he would go away to London. She would have no Christmas ball to plan and no position in the kitchen. Mrs. Riddle’s wrath would burn unhindered. And loneliness would wrap around Gwyneth’s heart once more.

But had she not told this man it was her purpose to serve? He stood here in the twilight pleading with her to help him. He needed her for reasons she could not fully understand. And she must serve.

“I shall return,” she said.

He let out a breath. “And I shall be your guardian. You have nothing to fear.”

Nothing but the loss of your smile,
she thought.
The absence of
your laughter. The disappearance of the joy and warmth and fun
you have brought into my life.

“I hope Mrs. Rutherford hasn’t drifted off to sleep without her tea,” William said as he took Gwyneth by the shoulders and turned her away from him. To her surprise she realized she was facing her own little cottage, its thatched roof wearing a cap of snow. “This was the path I used to take as a boy. Mrs. Rutherford would spy me splashing through this very beck, and she’d invite me to her cottage for tarts.”

Gwyneth wanted to tell him a hundred things—that she was afraid to lose him, that this past hour had been the most enchanting of her life, that she would pick strawberries at his side until not one remained on the hillside, that tears of joy and blessing filled her to overflowing. But she swallowed her words and climbed onto the snowy bank.

“Good night, Gwyn,” he said, lifting a hand in farewell.

She tried to speak, but nothing would come. As she turned toward the house, she saw him skate into the darkness.

“I plan to put sugarplum trees down the center of every table,” Gwyneth said, reading from her long checklist. The head cook peered over her shoulder as they stood beside the kitchen fireplace. “That means we shall need to make hundreds of sugarplums. Have we currants and figs?”

“Currants, yes. Figs, no.”

“But how can we have sugarplums without figs?” Gwyneth lowered the list and studied the elderly woman whose olive green eyes peered at her from a wreath of wrinkles. “Oh, Cook, we’ve sixty people coming for the Christmas ball.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take a carriage to t’ shops in Bowness on Windermere.” Cook gave a shrug. “You’ve got to have figs.”

“Figs and almonds for the sugarplums, ribbon for the table, gold paper for the name cards, and a hundred other things. But how can I leave Mrs. Rutherford? She was not feeling at all well when I arrived home last night.”

“Had you not been out frolicking until the wee hours,” Mrs. Riddle intoned as she approached them from the stairwell, “you would have been available to help the dear woman.” She held up the skates Gwyneth had worn the evening before. “These straps are wet. Sukey Ironmonger told me you returned the skates to the House this morning. Perhaps they were in use at the same time as these?”

When the housekeeper lifted the earl’s skates, Gwyneth knew her flaming cheeks gave away the truth at once. Carefully folding her list, she lifted up a prayer for wisdom and charity. Though she would like nothing better than to lash out at the thin-lipped woman, she was reminded of her precarious position in the House.

“I fear my mother-in-law may have contracted the same influenza that felled Sukey’s family,” Gwyneth said. “I shall be attentive to her, of course.”

“As well you should. She graciously took you in when you had no family and no home of your own. But then, perhaps you wormed your way into her good graces, just as you have done with others here at Brackendale Manor.”

“Madam, I have never been deceitful in my dealings with anyone.”

“You are aware, Gwyneth Rutherford, that it is against the rules of the House for fraternization to occur between employee and employer.” The housekeeper’s pursed lips hardly moved as she spoke. “An infraction is grounds for immediate dismissal.”

“Yes, madam. Of course.”

“Oh, do let her be, Riddle,” Cook spoke up. “If t’ earl chooses to take Gwynnie out for a bit of a skate, why should it trouble you? She’s a good girl, that she is—takin’ t’ leavin’s into t’ village of an evenin’, goin’ to church every time t’ doors open up, workin’ her fingers down to t’ nubs on this Christmas ball. You know she came all t’ way from Wales to look after old Mrs. Rutherford, and not t’ other way round. She left her family and country behind her, and she’s always been a fine, hard worker. T’ whole village will assure you that Gwynnie’s a good girl. You leave her be, Riddle, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

Mrs. Riddle stared down her nose at the little cook. “Watch your tongue, Cook, lest you speak out of turn and jeopardize
your
position.”

“I’ve been workin’ at t’ House nearly sixty years, Riddle, and I’m not afraid of t’ likes of you.”

“No? Though I came here after you, it was I who rose through the ranks to the superior position. As housekeeper, I am well within my rights to discipline you for insubordination.”

“I should think plannin’ all my menus and pokin’ your pointed nose into my vegetable storage bins and castin’ fear into my poor wee kitchenmaids would keep you busy enough, Riddle. I’m not afraid of you, and I never will be. With Gwynnie, here, I’ve a chance to show what I know about good cookin’ for t’ Christmas ball. She’s let me plan my own menu for once. We’re havin’ ham, boiled fowls, tongue, chicken pie, roast pheasant, galantine of veal, and boar’s head. We’re havin’ fruited jellies, prawns, raspberry cream, and meringues. We’re havin’ lobster salad, charlotte russe, and mayonnaise of fowl. And we’re decoratin’ t’ tables with sugarplum trees. Now how do you like
that
, Mrs. Fiddle-Faddle?”

The housekeeper lifted her chin and pressed her lips into a tight white line. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here, Cook,” she said. “As for you, Gwyneth Rutherford, a fortnight beyond the new year, you will see your last of the inside of Brackendale Manor. Once the earl leaves for London, you and your wicked attempts to woo his good favor will be quickly forgotten. Your low, immoral behaviors will be revealed to all within this House and the village. And you will find yourself cast out into the winter winds to straggle back to Wales where you belong. Do I make myself quite clear?”

“Yes, madam, that you do.”

Without another word, the housekeeper turned on her heel and marched back up the staircase. Cook thumbed her nose at the retreating shadow as the kitchenmaids emerged from hiding places to which they’d fled at the sight of the formidable woman.

“Good riddance, Fiddle-Faddle,” the cook said with a snort. “Don’t let her trouble you, Gwynnie. She’s just talkin’.”

“She means what she says.” Gwyneth shut her eyes and leaned against the long oak worktable. “Oh, Cook, ’tis a hopeless situation, no matter how I choose. I tried to step away from the Christmas ball, but the earl refused my resignation. And yet, every day that I remain, Mrs. Riddle grows more angry.”

“Jealous, don’t you mean?” Cook took the list from Gwyneth’s pocket and spread it on the table. “She knows she’s almost done for. She and Yardley and I—we were all hired on by t’ present earl’s father when he was but a very young man. ’Twill not be long before Sir William finds himself a bride and she sets about cleanin’ t’ House of its cobwebs, if you know what I mean. I’d put my wager on you for t’ housekeeper’s position. T’ earl likes you, and you’ve done good work for him. Don’t look so surprised. Sukey will fill my place, and one of t’ younger men will take on the butler’s duties. That’s t’ way ’tis.”

Gwyneth took the old woman’s hand. “The earl is a good man. He will not set any of you out of the House without seeing to your needs.”

“I hope you’re right. But we don’t know him well, for he doesn’t come regularly to t’ House.”

Gwyneth gave the woman’s hand a squeeze. He would come to Brackendale in springtime, in summer, in autumn, and in winter, he had promised her. But that was last night on the frozen tarn when they were nothing more than a man and a woman alone together on a chilly evening. Would Gwyneth be head housekeeper one day? Was that what William planned for her?

Oh, Lord, I’m so confused! I cannot take Mrs. Riddle’s place. But
if I don’t hold some position here at the House, Mum and I will live
in fear of our lives. The debt on the coal mine grows in spite of my
payments, and You know how I labor for every tuppence I earn here
at the House. Yet how can I recommend myself to the earl without
being accused of improper behavior? Already the skating has been
brought to light. Nothing will escape the prying eyes—

“You look as if you’re ready to wilt right onto t’ floor, Gwynnie,” Cook said. “Come now, what’s this about crackers here on t’ list?”

“Crackers?” Gwyneth focused again on her Christmas plans. “Oh, yes, Mr. Yardley told me about them. They’re a sort of toy. You pull them on each end, and when they pop, small toys fall out. I understand that Queen Victoria adores them.”

“Hmph. You’d better hurry out to t’ stables and arrange for a carriage. You won’t find crackers for sale in our little village. ’Twill be a journey to Bowness for you, my dear.”

“James!” The earl of Beaumontfort spotted one of his grooms at the end of the stables. “Have you been out? What is the condition of the roads?”