Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  Thank God my children cannot read.

  “Oh, darlings, I’ve just thought of something. I shall have to leave you with Oliver’s grandfather for a few minutes while I go on an errand. You mustn’t get out in this freezing rain again.”

  “I don’t want to get out in that rain again,” Susan said. “Can’t I get Augusta?”

  “Later. It won’t hurt you to do without your doll for a few minutes.”

  Charlotte left her children in Mr. Leeming’s single garret room and went to the ground floor and knocked on Mrs. Waddingham’s door. The landlady’s maid answered.

  “I must speak to Mrs. Waddingham.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “You know very well I’m Mrs. Hale.”

  The maid closed the door in Charlotte’s face.

  A moment later she returned. “Come this way.”

  The plump matron, whose red hair was threaded with gray, sat on a faded green silk sofa as Charlotte entered the drawing room. “Have you come to pay your rent, Mrs. Hale?” she asked.

  “I have come to pay a guinea. For now,” Charlotte added hopefully.

  “I’m sorry, but I shall have to have the entire sum.”

  “I can’t pay you the entire sum at this time.”

  “There’s a large demand for your rooms. I have to turn away paying tenants every month. I need the money.”

  How could the woman possibly understand what it was to need money? She was well fed, well clothed, and owned a fine home in a well-situated location. “Please. This is the coldest day of the year. We have nowhere else to go.” Charlotte indicated her wet clothes. “Even our dry clothing is locked in our chambers.”

  “I’m sorry, but whatever is locked within those chambers is now my property. After all, you now owe me nearly thirty guineas.”

  “Is there nothing I can do to soften your unyielding stance?”

  Mrs. Waddingham rang the bell for her servant. “I do not run a charity, Mrs. Hale. Good night.”

  If her family was going to be forced to the streets, it was imperative that Eddie have a warm coat. She returned to the military shop on the Strand. The lone shopkeeper, a woman a decade older than Charlotte, was assisting a solidly built officer of middle age. Charlotte went straight to the woolen great coat, a Guards replica which appeared to be designed for a lad of about four—a little large for Eddie, but he would grow into it. In fact, it should keep him warm for at least the next two years.

  Its workmanship was superior, and the wool’s heft of high quality, as were the brass buttons. She examined every inch of the garment but could not determine the price. Finally she turned to the shopkeeper. “What is the cost of this item?”

  “That’s a bargain for only twenty guineas.”

  Charlotte’s heart fell. A king’s ransom.

  She paced the shop’s entire children’s section, pondering her next move. There was only one clear choice. Desperation breeds corruption. She waited until the shopkeeper’s back was turned, then she took the coat and fled.

  “Hey! Come back! Thief!”

  As she reached the door, she bumped into a man entering the shop. Their eyes locked. This man had served with her husband. “Mrs. Hale,” said he.

  Ignoring him, Charlotte pushed past him, then she started to run.

  As the distance between her and the shop grew, two voices now called out, “Mrs. Hale!” The shopkeeper and Edward’s fellow officer.

  She’d been recognized. Her heartbeat pounded. Her pace quickened. She mustn’t let them catch her.

  As anxious as he was to join his family for Christmas, Lord Philip Fenton—who, in the army, preferred to be known as Captain Fenton—had an obligation to fulfill before seeking his own family after several years of absence. He had vowed to a dying Edward Hale that he would look after his family. In the year since his friend’s death in the Peninsula, all Philip had managed with that impotent promise was to send his own sister to deliver Hale’s widow the shattering news of her husband’s death and for Georgiana—who’d become a duchess since Philip had left England—to offer Mrs. Hale any assistance she could.

  Philip was aware such offers from a complete stranger were unlikely to be accepted, as his own offers would be spurned, but he was determined to make a valiant effort. For Edward’s sake.

  What a pity he had to return to England during the coldest December in a generation. Ships were unable to travel the frozen River Thames. A person could freeze to death in this numbing, windy, wet chill. Even those frigid Eton mornings he’d always accounted to be the most miserable of his life when he’d been forced from his warm bed now seemed like basking in front of a fire compared to London this evening.

  His hired coach stopped in front of a four-storey house on Chappell Street fronted by a slender, triangular parcel of grass, now colourless. Looking at the scrap of address in his hand, he saw that he had reached the house where Mrs. Hale lodged. Her chambers were number 222. He bundled up, left the coach, entered the darkened building, and began to climb the stairs lighted from wall scones. On the second floor, a paper sign was affixed to number 222. He came closer and read. EVICTED.

  Oh, God. I’m too late. If only he had come earlier.

  He raced to the ground floor. It appeared to be occupied by a single tenant. Would it be the property owner? Was that not always the case? He rapped at the door. A moment later a maid answered the rap. This was one time he did not mind using his title. “Lord Philip Fenton to see the landlord of these premises.” Titles did have their usefulness.

  Soon he found himself addressing the smiling landlady who was all reverence. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Hale.”

  “I regret to say she has just moved out.”

  His brows lowered. “Moved out or been evicted?”

  “One must pay one’s rent, my lord.”

  “What a pity you could not have waited. I had come to pay her rent in full—and for the next year in advance, too, but it seems I am too late, madam.” He moved to the door, then turned back. “Would you know where she’s gone?”

  The middle-aged woman’s eyes were like slits. “She said she had nowhere to go.”

  “How kind of you.”

  He strode to the door and slammed it as hard as he could. He could hear her asking him to pay the money owed. That merciless woman would not get a farthing from him. How did one live with oneself after evicting a widow and children who had nowhere to go? And during the coldest winter in memory!

  As he climbed back into his coach, he shook his head. How in the bloody hell did one find a woman with two small children in the world’s largest city? He didn’t even know how old the children were. As a disinterested bachelor, he had never properly listened when Hale spoke of the children. Philip was doing well to know one was a lad and the other a girl, though he would be hard pressed to know which was the eldest. As to the lassie’s name, he was clueless, but he thought perhaps the boy was named Edward, like his father. Perhaps.

  His coach offered little shelter from the bitter cold, but at least it was dry. He pitied anyone who had to be out on a night like this. Coachmen and ostlers commanded his most profound respect. And soldiers, too. They were all a hardy lot. They knew how to dress to insulate themselves against the cruelest nature had to throw at them.

  Now that he was coming home, he’d put aside his own uniform in favor of civilian clothing for the first time in almost a decade. Philip had always eschewed anything that would call attention to himself, whether it be the aristocratic title that indicated he was the younger son of a peer or the uniform a high-ranking military officer.

  His gloved hand swiped at the window glass. Beneath a gaslight on Piccadilly he beheld the heart-wrenching sight of a young mother and two bedraggled children walking in the cold. He might not have given it another thought—other than that of niggling sympathy—had not Mrs. Hale and her children been dominating his thoughts.

  He indicated for th
e coachman to stop, and he leapt from the coach to approach the woman. “Mrs. Hale?”

  She turned around to face him, her eyes wide and frightened. She was remarkably pretty, even with her face slickened from the freezing rain and her hair—was it dark blonde? It was difficult to tell in the damp darkness – plastered to her head. She looked to be about a quarter of century in age, about the same as Mrs. Hale would be, and the children appeared to be one male and one female. Surely this was Edward Hale’s recently evicted family.

  She shook her head, and began to stride forward again.

  He was not to be deterred. He walked beside them. “I say, it’s a dreadfully nasty night for a proper lady like yourself to be about.” For even though she had not uttered a single word, he intrinsically knew this was a well-bred woman who should not be walking these dangerous streets at night. He wondered, too, if she even had a place to go.

  “We’re walking to the posting inn at Chelsea.”

  The children would never make it. Not in this weather. “Madam. If you don’t fear for yourself, have a care for your children. It’s too far to take them in this cold.”

  She drew in a deep breath, continued on, but made no response.

  “Permit me to carry you in my coach. I assure you I’m a gentleman whom you can trust with your life.”

  “But,” she said in her cultured voice, “you are a stranger to me.”

  “A stranger you must trust if you don’t wish you children to become dangerously ill.”

  Her great sad eyes beheld the children, both fair haired. The girl was the eldest, not more than five years of age, her brother probably a year younger. The mother slowly nodded. “I assure you, I can scream quite loudly.”

  He stifled a laugh.

  It was no short distance to the posting inn in Chelsea. Thank God she had permitted him to get them out of the freezing rain. Once they were in the carriage, he tossed them a dry rug. “Where is it you will travel by coach?”

  “Lincolnshire.”

  “Ah, it’s the same with me. You will also be visiting with family for Christmas?” He would be exceedingly happy to see his family, especially his mother. He’d been worried about her ever since she’d suffered apoplexy, even though his sister had taken excellent care of her.

  It saddened him to think of all that had changed since he’d left England. Papa had died, and now Philip’s brother was the new marquess. Georgiana had fallen in love and married a duke. And, thankfully, Mama was regaining strength every day. Georgiana said she was finally able to walk without her cane.

  “A friend, actually.”

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. He always felt a bit deceitful when he abandoned both his aristocratic and his military titles, but he found doing so more easily put others at ease. “I’m Mr. Fenton.”

  She did not respond for a moment. Finally, she said. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Fenton.”

  As the coach drew near the busy inn yard, he thought of a plan that might be advantageous for the woman. “I do hope you realize I am a gentleman.”

  “I do hope you are, Mr. Fenton.”

  Since she obviously lacked funds to procure a hackney to take them to Chelsea, she must have precious little money. “I thought perhaps I could persuade you to share my coach to Lincolnshire. After all, it’s much warmer with the body heat of four as opposed to the body heat of one.”

  “I’m afraid hiring a private coach is much more expensive than the stage coach.”

  “Oh, this has already been paid for. I merely seek companionship during the journey.”

  By now they had reached the inn yard brightly lit from dozens of lanterns.

  She regarded him with suddenly warm blue eyes. The rigidity that had defined her these last twenty minutes vanished like the clearing of the frosty coach windows, and she smiled. “I shall remind you again, Mr. Fenton, I’m a lusty screamer.”

  Chapter 2

  Had she taken complete leave of her senses? Charlotte had agreed not only to put her life but also the lives of her children into the hands of a total stranger. For all she knew, this Mr. Fenton could intend to sell them into white slavery, whatever that might entail. Flashing into her brain were visions of herself in the harem of a round-bellied Oriental potentate with a turban on his head and curly-toed slippers.

  Though, she must own, Mr. Fenton did seem in every way to be a perfect gentleman. He had been most concerned over her family’s exposure to the brutally cold weather.

  As was she. Even after the passage of so many years, her stomach still dropped at the memory of lung fever sucking the life from her younger brother one particularly chilly winter. She could still envision Jackie’s tiny body lying in the rough-hewn wooden coffin in their parlor—the same parlor she avoided for years thereafter. During this past year she had borne much but she did not think she could bear the loss of one of her children.

  “Where has that nice man gone?” Susan asked. The three members of her family fit nicely on one seat of Mr. Fenton’s coach, the children on either side of her.

  Was Mr. Fenton a nice man? He gave every indication of being so. He certainly acted like a gentleman. He spoke like a gentlemen. And if appearances were any indication, he must be a gentleman. It wasn’t just that he dressed as would a man of good taste, fine breeding, and some degree of wealth. His whole demeanor bespoke a man of principle.

  She told herself she was not being swayed because he was uncommonly handsome. Which he most certainly was. He was larger than average and of proportions which she deemed most men would envy. His stylishly cropped hair was quite dark, as were his eyes, yet there was nothing menacing or brooding about those dark eyes. Quite the opposite. Like the rest of him, they were friendly and solid and reassuring.

  “I think he’s gone inside the inn,” Charlotte said as she gathered each of her children close. He’d told his driver to wait while he put up the hood to his great coat and hurried into the posting inn. “I must tell you whilst he’s away we’ve got to keep a secret from him. It’s rather a game we must play.”

  “Oh, jolly good,” Eddie said. “I love games.”

  “What is the game?” Susan asked, excitement in her voice.

  “We mustn’t tell Mr. Fenton our last name is Hale.” That shopkeeper on the Strand knew Mrs. Hale had stolen Eddie’s coat. Charlotte would be arrested. Had Mr. Fenton come to arrest her? He had called out her name. Was he some kind of magistrate looking for Mrs. Hale? Was he looking to receive a reward from the shopkeeper?

  She’d frozen when he’d called out her name. For an instant, she’d wanted to deny she was Mrs. Hale, but she knew one or both of her children would have quickly corrected the falsehood. So she had merely shaken her head, hoping her offspring were too cold and miserable to have noticed the little movement.

  “What name will we use?” Susan asked.

  “I thought it might be easy for you two to remember Oliver’s grandfather’s last name.”

  “Mr. Leeming!” Eddie said.

  “Only you needn’t say Mister,” Charlotte patted her son. “You’re to pretend your name’s Eddie Leeming.”

  “Then I can be bwothers with Oliver!”

  “Let’s not bring Oliver into this.”

  “And I shall be Susan Leeming.”

  Charlotte nodded. “And I’m Mrs. Leeming.”

  “How fun,” Susan said. “Mama?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Who is it we’re to spend Christmas with in Linkshire?”

  “Lincolnshire. All you need to know is that she’s a very kind lady. Very kind and very beautiful.” It wouldn’t do to tell Susan the lady was a duchess. That was too close to being a princess or a queen. It was too much to expect an impressionable little girl like Susan not to gush about such a connection, and such gushing was the last thing Charlotte wanted.

  Last year, at the behest of her brother, who had served with Edward, the Duchess of Fordham had left her home in Lincolnshire to bring Charlotte the he
artbreaking news of Edward’s death. The beautiful duchess had gone far beyond what her brother had asked, and before she left Charlotte’s lodgings had extracted a promise. “Give me your word, my dear Mrs. Hale, that if ever you’re in need, for anything, you will come to me at Gosingham Hall.”

  Charlotte had clung to her pride for long enough.

  The coach door opened, water spraying into the coach. A basket heaped with food was shoved in first, then Mr. Fenton hoisted in his dripping self before slamming the door shut. “I thought if we could eat in the coach we could save a bit of time. I hope to be able to stop for the night at Bury St. Edmunds.”

  She had forgotten to account for the cost of a room at an inn. It was a very good thing Mr. Fenton had offered to share his coach with them. And his food.

  Eddie’s eyes rounded at the basket heaped with food, and he began to dive in.

  “Eddie!” Charlotte chided. “You’re being most impolite.”

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Fenton protested, eyeing the boy. “Go right ahead and help yourself to whatever you like.”

  “I pwomise not to eat with my mouth open,” Eddie said. “Mama says that’s being impolite.”

  Their benefactor had certainly spared no expense. It had been a very long time since Charlotte had seen so much food. There were generous chunks of mutton, small loaves of fresh bread, hunks of cheese, steaming legs of capon, and Eddie managed to retrieve a handful of sweetmeats from the bottom of the basket.

  Mr. Fenton’s eyes narrowed at the sweets. “You must save those for last.”

  Eddie dropped them, grabbed the capon, which was larger than his head, and began to attack it.

  “After you,” Mr. Fenton said to her.

  Charlotte proceeded to split a piece of mutton into portions for herself and Susan and paired the meat with bread.

  From his deep pockets, Mr. Fenton produced some bottles. “I’ve brought milk for the children and ale for the adults.”

  “You’re very thoughtful, and I’m exceedingly grateful,” Charlotte said.