A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “Excuse me, madam, are you mending?”

  She lifted her head as her traveling companion’s voice penetrated the cloud of gloom and irritation swirling through her. “Mending?” She picked up the carefully stitched fabric on which she had labored for two months. “This is a quilt, buckaroo.”

  “Bucka-who?”

  “Quilt, quilt, quilt.” She thrust out the piecework. “I declare, you act as if you’ve never seen a quilt.”

  “Haven’t,” he said, tugging off his kid leather gloves and leaning forward, elbows on his knees, to examine the fabric. “Has this objet d’art a purpose, or is it merely decorative?”

  “Both, I guess. You lay it across your bed like a blanket. Or you hang it over the window if your shutters won’t keep out the cold. You wrap it around your shoulders in the wintertime. You bundle up your newborn baby in it. You spread it under a tree for summer picnics. And if worse comes to worst, you cut it up and feed it to the fire when there’s no wood around for chopping. It’s a quilt.”

  “May I?” Those blue eyes pinned her. “I’m fascinated by primitive handicrafts.”

  Star reluctantly surrendered her patchwork to the man. Primitive? She could teach this British tenderfoot a thing or two. After all, who was the best quilter in the whole county? Who had won the blue ribbon at the fair last summer? Whose quilt went for twelve whole dollars at the harvest auction? She watched the man holding her fine piecework up to the light from the coach window and studying the tiny stitches.

  “Intriguing,” he pronounced. “Calicut, I’d say. The fabric.”

  “Calico, you mean.”

  “Calicut, actually. It’s a port on the west coast of India. They export inexpensive cotton fabrics in little prints of flowers and such. You’ve a selection of Calicut cottons here in your quilt. This yellow one I’m sure of, and this blue, as well.”

  “The blue patch is from my granny’s best bonnet, and don’t try to tell me it’s cheap. I happen to know Grandpa brought the bolt all the way from Abilene when he came back from his last cattle drive right before he died. We made Granny’s bonnet, a skirt for my sister Bess, and a tablecloth out of that bolt of blue calico. Granny wore the bonnet to Grandpa’s funeral, and everyone said she looked as pretty as a picture, even though she’d been crying her eyes out for three days.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Give me that, please.” She took back her quilt. What did a man like him know about fabric, anyway? “I’ve been sewing and piecing all my life. Mama taught me how to use a needle when I was knee-high to a grasshopper, and she says I have a way with cloth.”

  “Knee-high to a what?”

  “To tell you the truth, I think it’s all in the colors. Before I start to cut the pieces for a new quilt, I work with the fabrics, arranging them this way and that, until I’m sure they’re just right. Some gals will put any old colors together, but not me.”

  “I see.”

  The corner of the man’s mouth was twitching, and Star had the distinct feeling he was trying not to laugh. She shrugged. Let him mock her. This wasn’t the first time she had felt alone and awkward since leaving the ranch. It wouldn’t be the last. By the following evening, she would be cooped up in a stone manor house with portraits of dead aristocrats hanging on the walls. By Christmas, she would be betrothed to the son of her father’s business partner. By the new year, she would be a married woman far from the loving support of home, family, and friends. But she wasn’t completely alone. Long ago she had entrusted her life to Christ, and now she would have to depend on Him more than ever. Though she knew she was far from perfect, Star believed her Creator had a good plan for her life. Oh, she had made mistakes, and those had brought consequences. Yet when she stumbled in her walk of faith, God never let her fall headlong. He held her hand, guided her, and brought joy in the midst of sorrow. Now He had brought her to England to marry Rupert Cholmondeley. She didn’t understand this plan of her heavenly Father’s, but how could she argue?

  “I recently looked into buying a mill in India.” The man across from her spoke up as she flicked her silver needle through the bright fabric. “Decided against it. Rather hot on the coast, you know. All the same, I made a thorough study of fabrics—cottons, silks, muslins, the lot—and I’m quite certain you’ve Calicut cotton there.”

  Star kept her focus on her needle. The man had a strong face and mesmerizing eyes, and she didn’t mind looking at him. But he seemed to enjoy baiting her, trying to draw her into an argument. Star, herself, had been labeled feisty by more than one suitor. In fact, her most recent episode of spunk and mule-headedness had lost her the catch of the county and helped land her in this predicament.

  “Look, mister,” she said, “I don’t want to be contrary. If you tell me this calico is from India, even though I know good and well it’s from Abilene, that’s fine with me. I’ve learned my lesson where arguing is concerned. The owner of the ranch south of us courted me for almost a year, and finally I ran him off by wrangling with him over one thing or another.”

  “Wrangling?”

  “He’d tell me Luke was one of the twelve disciples, and I’d pull the Bible right off the shelf to prove him wrong. Or he’d insist Scotland was an island off the coast of England, and I’d haul him over to the atlas to set him straight. He’d tell me a woman couldn’t string bob wire, and I’d march him out to the barn and pull on my bull-hide gloves. Sure, it’s an ornery job, but I’ve helped my daddy string bob wire since I was a colt.”

  “Bob wire?”

  Star looked up from her stitching. Lost in her memories, she had all but forgotten she was in an English passenger coach, jolting along down a cobblestone street at the edge of London. The man across from her leaned forward on his elbows, his blue eyes intent and his attention absorbed by her words. The realization that he was actually listening caught Star off guard. Since the start of her long journey, she’d had no one but the Lord to hear when she poured out her thoughts. Why this man? And why now? Maybe the Father had felt her utter loneliness, her edge of despair, and had sent this stranger to lend a measure of comfort.

  “Bob wire,” she said softly. “It’s used for fencing. Little sharp metal points stick out between the twisted wires and poke any critter that tries to get through. You’ve got your ‘Scutts Clip,’ your ‘Lazy Plate’ bob wire, and about six other kinds. My daddy’s been using ‘Glidden Four Line’ for ten years, and we like it best. Of course, I don’t suppose I’ll be stringing bob wire anymore.”

  “Barbed wire,” the man said. “In England we call it barbed wire, and I would suspect you are the only woman in the kingdom who knows how to string it. Perhaps such a skill will be of some use to you whilst you visit.”

  “I’m not here for a visit, mister. I’ve come to stay.” Letting her hands relax in her lap, Star leaned back and looked out the coach window. A light snow had begun to drift out of the leaden skies. The flakes floated through the gray air like puffs of dandelion down to settle on the wreaths of holly and fir decorating the doors of the houses that lined the street. “I’m about to marry a baron from Yorkshire. His father is in partnership with my father, you see, and I’m the link that will forge the two families. My sister Bess was in the chute to marry the baron, but now she’s engaged to the neighboring rancher.”

  “The chap you wrangled with over Bible history, geography, and barbed wire stringing?”

  “That’s the fellow. He decided he wanted a nice, quiet, obedient wife like Bess.”

  “Which left you to the Yorkshire baron.”

  Star nodded. The man was smiling now, his chiseled features softening from rigid angles and planes to crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the hint of a dimple in one cheek. For the first time, she noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath the black greatcoat he wore. Strong shoulders. Shoulders like a bulwark against all trouble.

  An urge swept over Star, compelling her to ask if she might lay her head on the man’s shoulder and if he might put his arms
around her and hold her tight and warm. But then the dam holding back the tide of emotion inside her would break and she would start to cry, and such a display would never do. Star Ellis might be a rancher’s daughter, but she had attended a finishing school for a whole summer in New York City. She knew how a lady ought to behave.

  “I’m traveling to Yorkshire myself,” the man said. “It’s not such a bad place, really. Not a great deal of barbed wire about; ancient hedgerows are used for fencing. But we’ve a lot of sheep and cattle. Villages are scattered here and there—jolly nice people. And of course, there are some enjoyable prospects—the Yorkshire Dales in the north, the Lake District to the northwest, and Scarborough on the coast.”

  “Is Yorkshire your home?”

  “Was.” He leaned back and let out a breath. “I’ve been away a long time. The prodigal son, you know.”

  As Star studied her fellow passenger, he began to transform from a mere object of information and slight annoyance into a human being. Prodigal son. What could he mean by that? Why had he left his family? And more important, why was he returning home now?

  “I’ve always wanted to go to India,” Star said. “Africa, too.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “I heard a missionary speak about India once at a tent revival. He’d been in China, and he talked about crossing the Himalayan mountains and traveling down into the steaming deltas of the Ganges. It sounded exotic and beautiful—not a thing like west Texas, which is flatter than a chuck wagon griddle. But when he mentioned the crowded villages and the people worshiping fearsome idols made of clay and stone, that’s when I knew I wanted to go. I think if I could teach one woman how to sew clothes for her naked little children or tell one old man about the love and forgiveness of Jesus Christ, I’d be as happy as a little heifer with a new fence post. I just want to do something meaningful, you know, something worthwhile.”

  “A heifer?” The man’s dark brows drew together, but the dimple in his cheek deepened. “With a new fence post?”

  “Heifers like to scratch against a tree or a post. They get fly bit sometimes, and the bites are itchy.” Star picked up her quilting again, embarrassed that her common way of talking had made her notions about India sound silly. For all she knew, the man seated across from her was a baron himself, or even a duke. He probably thought she was addled.

  “May I inquire as to the name of the missionary who spoke to you about India?” he asked.

  Star glanced up. “I don’t remember. I was a little gal at the time.”

  “A missionary named William Carey worked in India for many years. I met some of his students. Remarkable experience.”

  “Why?”

  He shifted on the seat. “Well, actually . . .” He ran a finger around the inside of his stiff white collar. “It was . . . ah . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” Star said, reaching into the traveling bag at her feet. “It says right here on page 22, ‘Do not be blunt when conversing with gentlemen. Bold, straightforward questions are never ladylike.’ This is my etiquette manual from the New York finishing school, and I reckon I’ve read that page fifteen times. Madame Bondurant told me I have a terrible habit of blurting right out what’s on my mind. You know, you grow up with five brothers and three sisters, and somebody says, ‘Dinnertime,’ and you holler out, ‘Hand over the biscuits.’ You don’t think about please and may I and thank you kindly. Somebody says, ‘Remarkable experience,’ and you ask, ‘Why?’”

  “And I shall tell you why.” He gave her a nod of acceptance. “I’d been taken to church all my life. Mother always went. Father couldn’t be bothered. Nonsense, he called it, and I must say I quite agreed. Incense, Latin, Gregorian chants, a great deal of formality and tradition. Lovely at Christmastime but a bit much the rest of the year, to my way of thinking. What was it all about? I hadn’t the foggiest. Far more interested in tying my brother’s knickers in knots than in listening to the minister.”

  Star laughed. “You tied your brother’s knickers in knots?”

  “It’s an expression rather like yours about the heifer and the fence post. I liked to annoy my brother during the service. Make him wriggle. Great fun, you know.” He chuckled. “At any rate, I went off to public school and then university. When I’d had enough and struck out on my own, I might as well have been wearing a suit of armor for all the religion that had penetrated my heart. Regular rake I was—women, wine, and cards. Good fun, I thought. Spent reams of money, bought a house in London, roved off to the Orient, gadded about the Continent. Thought I’d take a look round India, the Jewel in the Crown, you know.”

  “Oh, my.” Star couldn’t help but stare. What a different life this man had experienced. And yet, there was something about him that appealed to her. Something warm and honest.

  “Whilst I was in Calicut,” he went on, “I grew deathly ill. I’d a raging fever, thought I was going to die, and didn’t particularly relish the notion. In the hospital I met a couple of chaps— students of William Carey. As I recovered, I watched them work, saw the things they were willing to do, talked to them, questioned them. And that’s when it happened.”

  “When you realized you had confused religion with faith.”

  “Exactly.” He smiled at her. “I’m not much good at . . . well, at feelings. They’re unfamiliar territory to me. But this was more than a feeling. It was as though I could hear Christ Himself knocking on that suit of armor I wore. I took it off, and in He came. Right inside me. Changed everything. I can’t explain it, but I became different. A new man.”

  “And that’s why you’re going home. You want your family to meet the new man.”

  “Indeed.” He unbuttoned his greatcoat to reveal a fine suit of black worsted wool, a stiff white collar with pointed wings carefully turned to the sides, and a knotted silk tie stuck with a gold pin. “The reformed rake, so to speak. Bit of a sticky wicket, going home. My father’s been in a red rage at me for years. Mother can hardly speak my name. My younger brother, no doubt, hopes I’ll wander off and get eaten by a tiger so he can lay claim to the titles and the inheritance. Both sisters married while I was away. I’ve nieces and nephews I’ve never seen. Bad business.”

  “Consequences,” Star said. She watched as the coach rolled past the last of the redbrick houses and entered a vision of snowy white fields crisscrossed by black hedges. Flocks of woolly sheep clustered together for warmth, observed here and there by fat snowmen garbed in red knitted mufflers and black top hats.

  “Some things grab you by the throat,” Star said, “and you can’t escape the consequences. Last year Texas had the worst winter anybody can remember. Dead cattle lay piled up against the fences for miles around. The water holes froze. The grass was buried. Those poor creatures bawled so piteously it nearly broke my heart. The few that survived were all frostbitten and scrawny. Oh, it was a terrible spring, let me tell you. This year it’s happening all over again. They’re calling it the Big Die-Up.”

  “Dreadful.”

  “You can say that again. There’s not a thing my daddy or any other rancher can do but pray for a warm spell and hope the investors won’t pull out. On the other hand, I’ve learned that some consequences we bring on ourselves. Like when I ran off that rancher by being so ornery. So my Christmas present this year is going to be a wedding to the baron. Consequences.”

  “Consequences.” The man tugged off his coat and laid it on the empty seat beside him. Then he leaned one shoulder against the coach window and with his knuckle traced a pattern on the steamy glass. “May I ask the name of your baron, madam? Perhaps I know the man.”

  “The name is Chol-mon-deley, or something like that.” Star had practiced her new surname for weeks, but she thought she was probably botching the pronunciation. “Awkward as a bear in a bramble patch, if you ask me. Now, I’m Star Ellis. Plain and simple.”

  “I wouldn’t call you plain, Miss Ellis, and you’re certainly not simple.” He thought for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t know
your intended husband, though I’ve likely met him. Yorkshire’s hardly a place where one can stay anonymous for long.”

  Star shrugged. It wouldn’t do much good to learn about Rupert Cholmondeley anyway. Her intended husband had written her two letters since the announcement of their fathers’ agreement. Both missives had been short and uninteresting. The man’s primary occupation seemed to be foxhunting.

  “Permit me to introduce myself, Miss Ellis,” the man said.“I am the viscount Stratton, at your service. Lord Stratton, if you like.”

  Star felt her whole frame stiffen up like a buffalo hide in a snowstorm. This man was a lord? And she’d been rattling on and on like he was one of the cowhands over at the corral. Mercy!

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Viscount,” she said. “Wait a minute, I don’t think I got that right.”

  Grabbing her etiquette manual, she began flipping through the pages. If only she could find that section on introductions and titles. She tucked away a curl that had strayed from her bonnet and ran her finger down the index.

  “Lord Stratton,” he said. “That’s the formal name. My friends call me Stratton, and you’re welcome to do the same.”

  Swallowing hard, Star shut her book. “Don’t you have a real name?”

  “Grey is my given name, but you won’t hear it. If you need rescuing from your baron, you’ll have to ask for Lord Stratton.”

  “I’ll call you Grey.” She picked up her needle again. “And I don’t think anyone can rescue me.”

  “Righty ho!” the coach driver called as he swung open the inn’s door. “This be seven o’clock an’ time to leave Nottin’am. A fine inn, good eats, an’ decent beds, hey? Show yer thanks in a sovereign or two for the innkeeper, that’s right. Climb aboard everybody, and we’ll be off.”