'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories

by Christi Caldwell

  “We have had a productive discussion,” Quinn said, declining to offer a handshake. He did not rely on the word of cheats or liars. Barnstable cared not who ended up with the property, he simply wanted Quinn’s bid to drive up the final price.

  Which it would do, if all went according to plan.

  “Then I’ll wish you good day, Mr. Wentworth.”’

  Quinn strode for the door, the discussion having gone as well as could be expected. Not everything he’d hoped for, but—

  “There is one other consideration,” Barnstable said.

  Quinn turned slowly, lest his anticipation show in his eyes. “Do enlighten me.”

  “If I’m to wait another week for the sale, then I’ll want to ensure the bidding is as brisk as possible. I’ll hold the sale without reserve, Mr. Wentworth. You will have competition for that property, and I will have a good price for it. A very good price.”

  A sale without reserve attracted the widest possible array of bidders, because the terms of the auction guaranteed that somebody would end the day in possession of the property. The bidding began where it began and ended who knew where, but the property was guaranteed to change hands.

  “Barnstable, is that wise? You’ll attract every cit and nabob from one end of London to the other.”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it? To show the courts that I’m acting in good faith, doing my bit for a pair of orphaned females?”

  “Your notice does not specify that this is a sale without reserve.” Quinn had read the notice word for word, several times.

  “I’ll put up new notices specifying the later date, and clarifying that the auction will be without reserve. Then neither you, the merchants, nor the courts can complain.” He held the door open, and Quinn sent him a scowl that would have intimidated even the stalwart Mr. Farris.

  Only when Quinn was once again out in the brisk winter air tossing a half-sovereign to the crossing sweeper did he permit himself the smallest, pleased smile.

  “I don’t understand,” Chloe said. “You work for Mr. Wenthworth’s bank, but it’s Mr. Barnstable who holds Grandpapa’s mortgage.”

  The afternoon lull had started, the hour after luncheon when people paid social calls. A stop by the bookshop might follow such a call, but rarely preceded it.

  “I work for Wentworth and Penrose,” Mr. Farris said, pacing the shop’s worn carpets. “I am a solicitor and banks have much need of legal services. Mr. Wentworth has long admonished me that a man of business pays attention to his community. I’m to notice when the farmers bringing produce to Covent Garden begin to complain of drought, for example, or the modistes start experimenting with new fabrics.”

  He circled the shop as he made this explanation, his boots thumping against the floorboards. His steps were measured, his tone even, but Chloe had the sense he was upset.

  She was upset. Barnstable’s damned notice had been tacked to Grandfather’s very building, right by the front door where all must see it. The morning’s sales had been ominously light, though many people had stopped to read the auction notice.

  “What has this to do with an auction six days from now, Mr. Farris?”

  He paused by the biographies. “My employer, Mr. Wentworth, wants to buy this shop.”

  “I expect half of London wants to buy this shop. Great-grandfather chose the location well.” And yet, Chloe was certain that no matter how handsome the sale price, she and Faith would nonetheless be paupers by New Year’s.

  “Mr. Wentworth only learned of your grandfather’s illness through me,” Mr. Farris said, turning his hat in his hands. “I report what I find, like an intelligence officer, whether it’s an altercation between dandies in the park, a new hotel opening up, or a play closing after less than a fortnight.”

  “So you gossip with your co-workers. How is that related to Mr. Barnstable’s infernal sale?”

  He circled on the braided rug near the storybooks, where Chloe had arranged a few small nursery chairs not too far from—and not too near—the parlor stove.

  “I alerted Mr. Wentworth to your grandfather’s passing, and Barnstable well knows who my employer is. He’s doubtless seen me here on many occasions.”

  Tuesdays and Fridays, most weeks. Chloe looked forward to those days, and Aidan Farris was the reason. Why must she only now grasp that connection?

  “You are a loyal customer and an avid reader, Mr. Farris. That you frequent our shop is not unusual.”

  Faith had hung a cluster of red and green silk bows from the chandelier, and red bunting adorned the mantel. The store was as festive as last year’s decorations could make it, but standing amid the children’s tales, Mr. Farris looked miserable.

  “I am also loyal to my employer. Years ago, Mr. Wentworth found me searching the Covent Garden middens for scraps of food, and gave me a job as a bank messenger. The other lads at the bank and I ran all over London on bank business and reported back what we’d seen. We had food, a place to sleep, and work that didn’t keep us cooped up in some mill or foundry—or worse.”

  A fine, handsome boy loose on London’s streets could come to a very bad pass. Mr. Farris was grateful to his employer, in other words. Was his employer appreciative in return?

  “Mr. Wentworth is daily confronted with urchins beyond number,” Chloe said. “That is simply the nature of London. If he offered you a job, he saw something worthy in you.”

  “I hope so, for like you, I was raised by my grandparents. They succumbed to influenza, and overnight, I was cast out to make my way as best I could. I cannot bear—” He looked around the shop, a humble space, but Chloe’s home and the focus of all of her dreams. “I cannot bear that Quinn Wentworth’s ambitions, and my support of them, are why you will lose this legacy.”

  Aidan Farris was such a decent man. “This Wentworth fellow apparently had designs on the shop before he knew of your fondness for books. You need not torment yourself on our account.”

  Mr. Farris wandered to the cookery books, which had sold so briskly the day before thanks to him.

  “I am more than fond of books. Books became my family, my comfort. The junior clerks at the bank were expected to teach the messengers to read and cipher. I did well at that, and I can manage accounts competently, but the words, the magical, mysterious words… My grandmother had given me a start, and when I got to the bank I read everything I could find. Labels on patent remedies, pamphlets, contracts, discarded newspapers. Mr. Wentworth noticed, and eventually sent me off to read law.”

  “Now you read Mrs. More.”

  His gaze swiveled from the books to Chloe. “What’s-his-name in search of a wife?”

  Why must he ask that question while standing beneath the mistletoe?

  “One of many fine tales.” Chloe smiled, despite the impending sale, despite the now-empty shop, despite all, because Mr. Farris was smiling at her. She’d not seen that exact expression from him before, had not known how breathtakingly attractive he could be with that light of masculine devilment in his eyes.

  He was really quite handsome, which was just too bad considering that in a week—

  “He’s back,” Mr. Farris said, marching to the window. “What could Barnstable possibly want now, and why is he…?”

  Chloe stood side by side with Mr. Farris while Barnstable ripped down the notice he’d put up the evening before. In its place, he tacked another paper of the same size. He tipped his hat to Chloe and sauntered on his way, while Chloe’s dread sank to new depths.

  “He’s likely moved the sale to this week,” she said. “He cannot turn Faith and me out fast enough, and we’ve yet to hear from our great-uncle in Northumberland that we even have leave to visit him.”

  “Let’s read the notice,” Mr. Farris said, taking Chloe by the hand. “Barnstable will not have as many bidders if he moves the auction up, and that would mean a lower price for the property.”

  Chloe let herself be towed into the bright winter sunshine, for she did not want to read the notice at al
l, much less alone.

  “Tell me what it says.”

  “The sale has been moved back until after Christmas. An auction without reserve will be held December 27 at this location, the property to change hands January 2. All interested parties are to apply to P. Barnstable’s Bank for details.”

  “Why is he doing this?” And why did holding Mr. Farris’s hand bring such unaccountable comfort?

  “Because Mr. Wentworth had a private discussion with him. We have a little time, Miss Thatcher, to gather up a sum for you to bid on this property or to take with you when you leave.” He held the door for her and Chloe hurried back into the shop’s warmth.

  “Your employer had the sale set back until after Christmas? For what reason?”

  Mr. Farris resumed his pacing by the cook books. “I told him to, though Wentworth never does anything contrary to his own interests. I used to admire that about him.”

  Chloe positioned herself between Mr. Farris and the books. “Why did you tell him to, Mr. Farris? A few days one way or another can’t make much difference. Faith and I are reconciled to enduring some difficulties. We’ve put our names in with the agencies, we’ve contacted every bookshop in Bloomsbury, and we’re prepared—”

  He toucher her lips with a single finger. “I feel responsible, but that’s not the whole of it.”

  She had one moment to read the intent in his eyes, one moment to smile at him in response, and then he kissed her.

  “Where have you been?” Joshua asked.

  Quinn laid his hat on the sideboard, and hung his greatcoat on the hook by the conference room door. “Shopping for holiday tokens.”

  Joshua set aside the ledger he’d been reading. “It’s not like you to spend part of the work day wandering from shop to shop, Quinn. Also not like you to lie.”

  “I called upon a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker, and my intent was commercial.” Quinn hadn’t wandered, he pursued a well planned itinerary, chosen for how inclined to gossip each shop’s proprietor was—and how successful. “Why are my comings goings any of your business?”

  Joshua rose. He’d affixed a sprig of holly to his lapel, which ought to have looked ridiculous. “Because you have embarked upon some convoluted scheme. We are partners, and occasionally, your machinations benefit from thoughtful discussion.”

  “I truly was out visiting the shops.”

  “On reconnaissance, then. Farris hasn’t been much in evidence lately either.”

  This apparently bothered Joshua, who took a particular interest in the bank’s stable of messenger boys and how they progressed in life.

  “Farris is growing restless,” Quinn said. “He needs to be kept busy.”

  “If you want to set up that branch location so he can manage it, you might tell him that.”

  Quinn peered at the figures Joshua had been studying. “Is that what I want?”

  “You and I both know Farris will never go to work for a competitor, never establish his own practice as a solicitor. He feels beholden to the bank, and he would never betray our best interests. He’s a perfect candidate to open our first branch office, but right now, he’s not very happy with you.”

  Few people were happy with Quinn. He preferred it that way. “Has Farris grumbled to you?”

  Joshua drew out his watch, shiny gold affectation that every banker was supposed to carry. Quinn did as well, but like every poor child in London, he still told time by the bells of St. Paul’s.

  “Farris would never grumble to me, but he practically grew up at this bank. He’s not happy with you, and if he understood that he’s to manage the new branch, he’d be less discontent.”

  “Counting chickens before they’ve hatched, Joshua? I haven’t mentioned a possible promotion for Farris to anybody, and I’d certainly discuss it with you before I broached it with him.”

  Joshua sauntered toward the door. “No, you’d patiently allow me to air my opinions, then do as you originally intended to anyway. I wish you had been out holiday shopping, Quinn. There is more to life than this damned bank.”

  A popular sentiment lately. “Where are you off to?”

  “None of your business, but in the spirit of respect for holiday traditions, I’ll refrain from rendering any orphans homeless. I’ll try to catch Mrs. Hatfield beneath the mistletoe instead, and provide entertainment for the clerks.”

  Mrs. Hatfield was the bank’s auditor. Quinn gave her a wide berth and a generous paycheck. Nobody would catch her within ten feet of the mistletoe unless she wanted to be caught there.

  “If you’re planning to flirt with our Mrs. Hatfield, I hope your affairs are in order, Penrose.”

  Joshua paused by the door, and looked like he wanted to say more. He merely shook his head and left Quinn alone with the ledger.

  Chapter 4

  “You kissed me,” Miss Thatcher said.

  Aidan had kissed her, gently, respectfully, and not nearly as much as he’d wanted to. “We’re alone, and not visible through the front window. You haven’t slapped me.” Miss Thatcher was in fact smiling, at him, else he would never have been so bold.

  “It was a lovely kiss, Mr. Farris.”

  If she thought that chaste peck on the lips was lovely… Oh, the kisses he wanted to share with her. “My name is Aidan, and I’m arguably the author of your misfortunes. I should be whipped at the cart’s tail for presuming.”

  “We’re beneath the mistletoe,” Miss Thatcher said, pointing upward. “Holiday tradition is the farthest thing from presumption.”

  “The mistle—?” Aidan looked up, at pale green leaves and small white berries. “So we are.” He plucked a berry and put it in his pocket.

  “That wasn’t a holiday kiss?”

  The moment became something more as quiet spread over the shop. The fire in the parlor stove crackled softly, harness bells jingled merrily outside the door.

  “Miss Thatcher, you must know that as much as I esteem a good book, I esteem you far more. You are never too busy to assist an elderly customer, you are patient with the children. I adore that about you. You read to them on Tuesday afternoons—I nearly worship you for that—and you have biscuits for them, just for them, fresh from the bakeshop. You work hard here, and clearly, you have the vocation to put the right books into the right hands. I envy you that calling.”

  She regarded him as if trying to decide between suggesting one of Sir Walter’s rousing Scottish adventures or Miss Austen’s witty social allegories.

  “I thought you liked books, Mr. Farris.”

  “I love books, but there are many bookshops in London. There is only one Chloe Thatcher.” Who would soon leave for Northumberland if he could not find a means to save her shop.

  She took a step back, her smile dimming. “And you have only one employer, to whom you are loyal, and he apparently wants to close my shop. I’d best get my reshelving done.”

  And there, in a few honest sentences, lay the difficulty. “Mr. Wentworth saved my life.”

  She picked up a stack of bound volumes. “Does that give him the right to ruin mine? Or Faith’s? She’s fifteen, Mr. Farris, and pretty and innocent. Does her fate trouble Mr. Wentworth of a night?”

  Chloe Thatcher was pretty too, also angry, and justifiably so.

  “I’ll have another talk with Mr. Wentworth,” Aidan said. “A very pointed discussion. Perhaps he’d like to own a bookshop.”

  Maybe—when pigs circled the dome of St. Paul’s. Quinn Wentworth had an abacus where his heart should have been. He might not loathe books outright, but he had no use for them. Books, he’d often opined, were written by those with too much idle time on their hands, and read by those with the same affliction.

  Fat lot he knew. The thought was disloyal and liberating.

  “I would like to own a bookshop,” Miss Thatcher said. “I suspect you would as well, but apparently that’s not to be.”

  Aidan took a look around at the rows of shelves, each one holding undiscovered treasure. Truth be to
ld, he liked even the scent of a bookshop—faintly vanilla, with a tang of leather and learning.

  “I cannot leave the bank, Miss Thatcher. The employees are like family to me, and gave me a chance when I was just another dirty boy living on the streets.”

  She shoved a book between the other bound volumes. “This situation is not your fault, Mr. Farris, I know that. I respect you, I like you, and were the circumstances different…” Her gaze went to the mistletoe, probably the saddest glance ever directed at holiday greenery, then she resumed her work.

  Faith came in carrying a sack redolent of cinnamon. “I’ve brought the biscuits,” she said over the jingle of the doorbell. “Hello, Mr. Farris. Care for a biscuit?”

  Aidan wanted much more than a biscuit, and for the first time in years, his ambitions did not lie in the direction of advancement at the bank.

  “I’m afraid I cannot stay, Miss Faith. I must return to my office.”

  Though inspiring Quinn Wentworth to extravagant generosity was a doomed undertaking. Still, if Aidan cared for Miss Thatcher—for both of the misses Thatchers—he had to try.

  The days marched forth for Chloe in a chilly succession of forced smiles, anxious hours, and sales that were brisk, but not brisk enough. Because she and Faith were hoarding every spare groat, they had agreed that Christmas dinner would be cheese toast and apple tort with a fresh pot of tea. Faith had splurged to the extent that the tea would have a dash of sugar and a dollop of milk, luxuries Chloe had taken for granted three short months ago.

  “Two copies of Fordyce’s Sermons,” Faith said, flipping the sign on the door from open to closed. “What a thrill it must be for a young lady to unwrap her own copy of a lot of preaching and scolding on Christmas morning.”

  She twisted the lock on the door and leaned her back against the jamb. “We’re about to lose this place, and if nothing else, I finally realize how dear it is to me.”

  Chloe had no need to count the money in the drawer. Remaining open on Christmas had resulted in little more than the two sales Faith mentioned. She and Faith had passed the time playing whist and pretending to enjoy the quiet.