A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “Miss Ellis?” Grey spoke from the doorway to the drawing room. “May we join you?”

  Glancing up in surprise, Star discovered her future husband peering at her over his older brother’s shoulder. “Lord Stratton,” she said, rising. “Lord Cholmondeley, please do come in.”

  Grey tugged on his brother’s jacket sleeve to drag him into the room. “I see you’ve been quilting,” he said. “Miss Ellis is stitching a quilt, Rupert.”

  “Ah,” Rupert said blankly. “A quilt.”

  “How is it coming along?” Grey asked.

  Star slipped back onto the settee as the men settled into a pair of armchairs facing her. “I’m finished with the top,” she said. “Now I need to quilt it.”

  “Then you’ll be wanting a quilting frame.”

  Pleased that he remembered, Star allowed herself to look into Grey’s brilliant blue eyes. “Yes, please. I can’t manage this much fabric without a frame.”

  “She needs a frame, Rupert.”

  “Ah,” Rupert said. “A frame.”

  Giving his brother a scowl, Grey picked up the corner of the quilt. “Can you describe this frame you require, Miss Ellis? It would be of wood, I assume. And how large?”

  “Big enough to hold the quilt.” As Rupert gave a monumental yawn, she shook out the top and spread it across the floor. Gathering her skirts, she hunkered down beside her handiwork to demonstrate. “See, you take two pieces of one-by-two board the length of the quilt top, plus twelve inches. They make the front and back of the frame. Then you do the same thing for the side pieces. You clamp the four boards together, leaving a four-inch overhang at each corner. Then you put the frame over the backs of four wooden chairs, and everybody goes to quilting.”

  She paused and stared at the length of fabric. “Summers, we’d put the quilting frame on our front porch. Mama and us four girls would pull up our chairs, and we’d get to talking and laughing to beat the band. Daddy would come up onto the porch, and he’d say, ‘You gals could talk the hide off a cow.’ We’d just giggle and carry on like he wasn’t even there. And then maybe one of the neighbors would come over, and she’d pull up a chair. Sometimes we had twelve or fifteen women quilting away. You could finish a quilt as quick as greased lightning that way, and then you’d just start in on another one.”

  Lost in her memories, Star gazed at the bright patches until they blurred out of focus. “Those were some good times,” she said softly.

  “Rupert will see that you have a frame immediately,” Grey announced. “Won’t you, Rupert?”

  “What?” his brother said, through half-lidded eyes. “Oh yes, of course.”

  “Perhaps some of the house help would enjoy learning to quilt,” Grey added. “Our mother adores needlework. I’ll ask her to come and assist you.”

  Star managed a smile. “I thought I could take the quilt down to the village when I’m finished with it. Betsy and Nell have it kind of tough in that smoky little cottage. Pieces of the thatch roof are falling right down onto the floor, and the wind just rips in there—”

  “Colder than frog legs?”

  Delight trickled down her spine. “I reckon so. Anyhow, I figured I could give them this quilt and then maybe start on another one. A family can never have too many quilts. Betsy’s got three little fillies, and one of them goes to coughing so hard she can hardly breathe. I’m afraid she has consumption.”

  Grey had knelt beside her and was holding one edge of the quilt. “Have they taken the child to an apothecary?”

  “Betsy’s husband was laid up with a broken leg this fall, and they barely made their rent. I’m sure they can’t afford medicine.”

  Grey stroked his chin for a moment. “How soon could you finish the quilt?”

  “In a day, with help. Otherwise, it’ll take a little longer.”

  “Could you have it ready by the Christmas Eve party? Rather than give the quilt to Betsy, why not put it into the charity auction? I’ll see that all the money earned from your quilt goes straight to the village for medicines and blankets.”

  “Would you? Oh, Grey, that would be wonderful!” She brushed back a curl that had fallen from her chignon. “Finishing this quilt ought to keep me as busy as a prairie dog after a gully washer. And I don’t mind telling you, that’s the way I like it.”

  Suddenly remembering where she was, Star glanced at Rupert. The young man had drifted off to sleep in the high-backed chair, his head lolling to one side as he snored softly. Dear God, thank You! she prayed in silence. In five minutes with Grey, she’d forgotten all about Rupert and her upcoming marriage. Chattering like a chipmunk, she was all aglow with plans and hopes—and then she had remembered.

  “You’d better go,” she said quickly. “And take your brother with you. I won’t—”

  “Star.” Grey caught her hand, drawing her back to the floor beside the quilt. “You must try to engage Rupert in conversation. Talk to him about the fox hunt or something. Let him know you as you are.”

  “He doesn’t want to know me.”

  “I can’t keep walking past this room and finding you alone. It’s all I can do not to take you out of this wretched place and . . . and . . .”

  “I’ve prayed myself blue in the face,” she whispered. “I’ve done all I know to do to make Rupert interested in me, and he isn’t. God made this plan, and it’s going to be up to Him now to work it out. I can’t do this on my own.”

  “Did He make this plan, Star?” Grey’s eyes were earnest. “How can a person know the truth?”

  “Jesus Christ is the truth. If we know Him, if we follow Him, He’ll lead us on the right path.” She crumpled the fabric of her quilt. “I have to believe that! I have to keep going, walking in the direction I believe I’m supposed to take. What about you? Have you told your father about your experience at the hospital in India? Does he know you’re a new man?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m a man at all. I’m nothing but a cipher to him, the heir to the earldom, and a grand disappointment.”

  “But you were led back home, Grey. You have to speak to him. That’s your path.”

  “Blast this ‘new man’ business. It’s difficult enough—”

  “Nobody said it would be easy. But God is with you, Grey. He’s with me.”

  “And I want you.”

  Star felt as though a sack of oats had slammed into her chest. “You can’t.”

  “No, I can’t.” He gritted his teeth. “I’ve lived the old way, and I’ve lived the new. It was easy to choose myself over everything else. Easy to toss away my money, easy to drink until my head spun, easy to gad about the globe without a care. Easy and empty. Fruitless. Hopeless.”

  “And the new way?” she asked, laying her hand over his.

  “Difficult. But I won’t go back.”

  Star swallowed hard. “No.”

  “Then why are you in my life?” He cupped his hands around her face. “Why are you beautiful and good and amusing and perfect?”

  “Please don’t say those things,” she said, fighting against the tide of emotion that flooded through her. “I don’t know why we met. I can’t see the pattern. Can’t understand this quilt. Can’t . . . can’t . . .”

  “Don’t cry.”

  “No,” she mumbled. “No.”

  “Rupert!” He swung around and gave his dozing brother a swift kick in the shin. “Wake up, you cabbage head.”

  “Oof!” Rupert grabbed his leg. “I say, Strat, what was that for?”

  “Miss Ellis would enjoy a walk through the hedge maze. Are you going to sleep all afternoon, or will you take your fiancée for a stroll?”

  Rupert ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “But it’s snowing.”

  “Go on, Rupe.” Grey all but hauled his brother out of the chair. “Show Miss Ellis that a snowstorm won’t stop an Englishman.”

  Giving Rupert a final shove in Star’s direction, the viscount hastily exited the drawing room. She gathered up her quilt and pushed it into her ba
g as Rupert massaged his shin.

  “It’s snowing,” he repeated. “Rather a bad time for a walk, don’t you think, Miss Ellis?”

  Star rose and looked at the man who was to be her husband. “You could tell me about foxhunting.”

  “Mm. Yes, well, all right.” He limped across the room to the long French doors that led out toward the evergreen hedge maze. “Fox hunt. Good sport, actually. One gathers one’s dogs and mounts one’s horse. A group of hunters, rather. Then with a good bit of galloping about, one hunts down a fox.”

  “I see.” She joined him at the window. The hedge maze spread out beyond the drawing room at the back of the huge manor house in an intriguing pattern of twists and turns. “So two or three of you fellows hunt down as many foxes as you can to keep them from bothering the livestock? We do that with coyotes, when they get troublesome. I’ll tell you what, I’ve ridden some trails that would make a mountain goat nervous. How many foxes do you reckon you’ve brought down in a day?”

  He looked down his nose at her. “The fox hunt is a sport.”

  “Oh.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ellis, I should like to speak to my valet about some warm water for my injured leg.” He gave her a smile and a slight bow. “Perhaps we shall be able to walk the maze another time.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, watching him go.

  The quilting frame magically appeared in the drawing room later that evening. As she set to work, Star tried to believe Rupert had sent it, but she knew he’d been napping as she explained the specifics of the construction. For the next three days she saw nothing of either man except at evening meals. Grey was careful never to meet her eyes.

  Two days before her engagement was announced, Rupert invited the Misses Smythe to Brackenhurst Manor to help prepare the charades for the Christmas party. Both evenings, as was their custom, the Cholmondeley family gathered in one of the drawing rooms after dinner to play the pianoforte, engage in card battles, or read aloud. Star found it a chore to watch her fiancé chattering away with the two attractive young women, while she was left unattended at the other end of the room.

  “Won’t you sing with me tonight, Miss Ellis?” the countess asked as the group retired to the firelit chamber on the night before Christmas Eve. “I heard you singing while working at your quilt, and you’ve such a lovely voice.”

  Star slipped her arm through that of the elderly woman. She had liked the earl’s wife from the start, and she’d enjoyed her company the few times they’d chatted. She prayed that the countess would become, in time, a soul mate. “I’d love to sing with you, my lady. Thank you very much for asking.”

  “Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Ellis? I should like to hear you.”

  Star blanched at the thought of her own awkward piano banging. She could pound out “She’ll be Comin’ ’round the Mountain” or “Oh, Susannah” as well as the next gal, but she didn’t think her talents would go over too well at Brackenhurst Manor.

  “I’m not much of a pianist,” she said.

  “And how is your stitching coming on? Stratton has told me that you’re preparing your quilt for the charity auction. How charmingly generous of you, my dear. The party is tomorrow evening, you know. Everyone is coming. Of course, George will announce your engagement to Rupert, and the two of you must lead in a dance. Oh, good heavens—do you have waltzing in America?”

  Star smiled as they walked into the parlor. “Lots of waltzing, madam. And I’m quite good at it.”

  Comforted, the countess motioned for everyone to gather around the pianoforte. Rupert joined Polly and Penny Smythe on one settee. Grey found a chair beside his father’s. Star took the stool near the instrument as the earl’s wife prepared to sit.

  “Bosh and horse feathers!” Hortense cried as she opened the instrument. “I’ve forgotten my sheet music.”

  “I’ll fetch it, Mummy,” Rupert said, standing instantly.

  “No, darling, you won’t have a clue where I’ve put it. I’ll only be a moment. Miss Ellis, why don’t you tell one of your amusing stories about America?”

  Star could have crawled straight into a posthole as she watched the countess walk away. She bit her lip and looked around at the expectant faces. Any story she told would make her look all the more odd and different, and that was the last thing she needed. By this time tomorrow, she would be formally engaged to Rupert Cholmondeley, and the connection between the families would be sealed. She couldn’t endanger that.

  Focusing on Grey, she realized that he, too, was trying his best to follow the plan he felt God had set before him. He had spent the holidays exclusively with his family—no roving about in London or visiting friends. He had evidenced interest in the affairs of the earldom as he sat by the fire with his father. He even had tried to urge Rupert to build a relationship with his future wife.

  But Star had recognized in his tone of voice the dismay that dogged him. Thus far Grey had made no more headway in achieving his goal than she had with her vain attempts to attract her fiancé. Maybe she could help Grey walk on the path he believed God had led him to.

  “In the carriage on the way to Brackenhurst,” she said, “Lord Stratton told me about a significant event that happened during his time in India. Would you be willing to share with your family what happened at the hospital in Calicut, my lord?”

  Grey’s eyes deepened. “Thank you, Miss Ellis,” he said. “Yes, I should like to speak of that.”

  “Not another story of a cobra slithering about, is it, Strat?” Rupert said. The Misses Smythe burst into a duet of giggles. “We’re not going to have man-eating tigers, are we?”

  “On the contrary.” Grey leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and addressed his family. “This story is about me. Almost a year ago I was staying on the coast of India in a town called Calicut, and I became very ill. While in hospital, I realized I was dying.”

  “Really, Stratton,” the earl intoned, “is this the sort of topic to address in the presence of delicate ladies? And at this jovial time of year?”

  “I want everyone to hear my story. I want you all to know why this time of year has become most important to me. You see, while I lay near death, a group of men visited my bed. They had been students of a missionary named William Carey. I began to talk to them about my life, the way I’d wasted it.”

  “Wasted my money,” the earl put in.

  “Yes, Father, I wasted your money. I lived only for myself, only for my own pleasure, only for what I thought would make me happy. And there, in Calicut, I saw the emptiness of it.”

  “Good show,” the earl piped up. “About time, what?”

  “Past time. I decided that if I survived my illness, I should turn myself around and try to behave in a worthy fashion. Perhaps then I’d find happiness and meaning in my life.”

  “A grand idea!” The earl motioned his wife to be seated as she returned with her sheet music. “Stratton’s just telling us he had a brush with death, Hortense. He decided to turn himself about and stop acting such a cad.”

  Grey smiled at his father’s summary of the story. “Actually, the missionaries explained to me that I could never find true happiness—and certainly never even set one toe into heaven—if I tried to be worthy in my own strength. They said I couldn’t do it alone, and I knew they were right. No one can.”

  “Nonsense. An English gentleman, properly brought up—”

  “Will never be good enough. You see, my lord, we have all done wrong. Grave wrongs, as I did, or minor wrongs—but wrongs all the same. No human is perfect. Only God can claim that honor, and because of our faults, He has every right to chuck us all out on our ears. We deserve it. But I learned a very important word in India. The word is grace. Grace is the undeserved gift of God’s forgiveness and salvation. I can never be good enough, but if I accept God’s grace—the death of His Son to pay for my wrongs—then I am welcomed into His presence as a forgiven child of the king. With His power, my life has turned around. And in His joy, I
have discovered a happiness I never dreamed possible.”

  Grey looked into the faces of his family one by one. His mother dabbed her eyes. “Oh, darling, what a marvelous story,” she whispered.

  The earl scowled a moment and rubbed his mustache. “I say, Stratton,” he said, “you’re not thinking of entering the church? Poor as mice, most of the vicars I know.”

  “No, Father, of course he isn’t,” Rupert said and gave a yawn. “He’s trying to tell you he’s come round. Planning to do his duty by the family, take responsibility for the title, all that. Right, Strat?”

  “In part, but—”

  “There you have it, then. Come on, Mummy, do give a song now, or I’m likely to drop straight off to sleep.”

  “Hear! Hear!” the earl said. “Miss Ellis, will you sing?”

  Star tore her eyes away from Grey’s and picked up the sheet music.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As the first partygoers arrived on the doorstep of Brackenhurst Manor, Grey stepped into the evergreen hedge maze. The ten-foot-high concealing walls of fragrant cedar had always been his chosen retreat. He knew the maze like the back of his hand, and as a boy it had pleased him no end to guide one of his young cronies into the hedges and then vanish, losing him completely. Hours later, he would march in after the poor chap and haul him out into the open to restore his wounded spirit with hot tea and cakes.

  Today, Grey hoped he could lose himself. He needed to think, to sort out the confusing swirl of demands that echoed back and forth inside him. In a few short hours, Star Ellis would be formally betrothed to Rupert Cholmondeley, a status almost as binding as marriage. Blast!

  The snow crunched beneath his boots as Grey strode down one corridor after another. Could he afford to lose this woman who had touched his very soul? Ridiculous to let Rupert have her, when the young man was so oblivious to her beauty, her wit, her intelligence. Star was a glowing light, shining for all to see—and yet Rupert remained completely blind to her.