A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  With her refusal to accompany him to the town of Bowness, the earl of Beaumontfort’s attentions to her had ended. She should be grateful.

  Clutching the hod close, she pushed back into the room. She must not think about the man. How could she be so ungrateful as to desire more than God had given her? This cozy cottage and Mrs. Rutherford were enough. Dear Lord, please let them be enough!

  “Donald Maxwell did his best to woo t’ earl’s wee sister when she came of age,” Mum was saying as Gwyneth stoked the fire. “But Lady Elizabeth would have none of it. She married a fine young fellow from Yorkshire, and a good thing, too.”

  “I’ve never seen Lady Elizabeth.”

  “A true beauty, and very sweet. Once Maxwell knew he’d lost her, he set about to match his own sister to t’ earl.”

  Gwyneth sat down again and studied the letter’s elegant penmanship. “I didn’t realize any woman held the earl’s affections.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t take them serious, Gwynnie. At least, that’s t’ word in t’ village. Some say our master will be a bachelor for t’ rest of his days. But you can be sure any number of women would marry him at t’ drop of a hat. He’s a good Christian, he’s rich, he’s landed, he’s becomin’ to look upon, and he’s kind. What more could a lady want, I ask you?”

  “Nothing more,” Gwyneth answered softly. “Nothing at all.”

  Hoping her mother-in-law could not read the message in her tone of voice, she sorted through the remainder of the letters. She couldn’t afford to dwell on the impossible. There was work to be done, after all.

  In one pile she placed the letters from those who had accepted the invitation to the Christmas ball. In another, she placed the regrets. To her way of thinking, it seemed half the English peerage would be coming to Brackendale Manor in less than a week. She could only pray she’d be ready for them.

  “Do you find t’ earl becomin’ to look upon, Gwynnie?” Mrs. Rutherford asked. “Or is he too old for your taste?”

  “Old? He’s only just past forty,” she answered absently. “He’s certainly not old, and I, for one, cannot imagine how anyone finds him crotchety. I’ve never known a man who enjoyed a laugh more or one who took such pleasure in—” She glanced up. “The earl is agreeable.”

  Mrs. Rutherford chuckled as she turned her knitting to start a new row. “Agreeable, is he? More so since he met you, I’m told.”

  “Who would tell you such a pointless piece of nonsense as that?”

  “Sukey Ironmonger. T’ dear girl dropped in on me t’ other day, and she told me t’ House is fairly aglow with your preparations for t’ ball. Everyone’s in high spirits. Do you know t’ earl himself has been speakin’ quite plainly with his staff, askin’ questions and seekin’ advice as though he were no grander than a common gent? Sukey says last week he went down to t’ village and had a look round at t’ ironworks, t’ mill, and all t’ shops. He’s ordered his footman to write up a list of all t’ widows and elderly who can’t provide for themselves. Word has it, he’s going to establish a fund. Can you credit that? A fund for t’ elderly.”

  Gwyneth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and placed the letters in her workbasket. “The earl of Beaumontfort is a good man. I have no doubt that he’d care for the villagers.”

  “He didn’t before.” Mrs. Rutherford gave a cough. “T’ villagers say ’tis you, Gwynnie, who’ve done it. You’ve changed t’ earl.”

  “I’ve done nothing but my duty,” Gwyneth insisted, “and you’ve dropped your hanky again, Mum. I do wish you’d look after it. Here, take mine. Look, this is a letter that came in the post today. Perhaps ’tis from your cousin in Ambleside.”

  Before Mum could go on with that ridiculous blather about Gwyneth’s effect on the earl, the younger woman crossed the room to lay out their nightgowns and slip the coal-filled brass warmers into their beds. Enough was enough. The gossip had to stop before her reputation suffered.

  If so many women in London were eager to marry William, why didn’t he just choose one of them? Let him marry Donald Maxwell’s sister. Better yet, he could just stay a bachelor, and then she might see him now and again, or speak with him . . .

  No, there must be no further dalliances with a lowly housemaid. The earl had made his request to see Gwyneth alone, she had spurned him, and that was that.

  “Oh, dear God, this cannot be!” Mrs. Rutherford gasped and began to cough. “Oh, Gwynnie! Gwyn!”

  Doubled over in pain, the old woman clutched at her chest as Gwyneth raced across the room to her side.“What is it, Mum? Take a sip of tea. Please, you must calm yourself. Whatever is the matter?”

  Mrs. Rutherford took a drink as Gwyneth patted her on the back. A hand on the fevered forehead told the dire news. “Mum, you’ve taken a turn for the worse. You must come and lie down. I’ll fetch the apothecary at once.”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Rutherford squeezed Gwyneth’s hand as her coughing subsided. “No, I cannot. Cannot rest. This letter . . . ’tis t’ news I feared. May God have mercy upon us, Gwynnie. We’re ruined.”

  Beaumontfort paused at the edge of the wooded copse and studied the little cottage by the stream. In spring, he recalled, the climbing rosebush by the door would be lush and green, its long, arching canes loaded with pink blossoms. In summer, the lavender that lined the narrow lane would display a mist of heavenly purple flowers. By autumn, the trees surrounding the cottage would cast their red and gold leaves into the beck, and a wisp of pale smoke would waft from the brick chimney.

  Gwyneth would be there, too, tending Mrs. Rutherford, carrying the leavings to the villagers, peeling potatoes for dinner. All the things that made her common . . . and somehow so dear to him.

  Would he see her again? Could he ever bridge the gap between them? Or must he ride back to London, immerse himself in business, and fall into his bed exhausted and unfulfilled each night?

  “Sir?” His footman gave a polite cough. “Shall we return to t’ House now? ’Tis past ten o’clock.”

  Drawn from his reverie, the earl surveyed the small hunting party that had followed him through the woods that afternoon. As members of his loyal staff, they were always polite, always distant, always obedient. Was this type of demeanor what Gwyn had meant by servanthood? Was this the way one served the Lord?

  Would she do everything Christ asked of her without response, without even a word of personal emotion—as these who served the earl of Beaumontfort did? He searched the faces of the men. Tired and cold, they obviously longed to hurry to their homes in the village and prop their feet before the fire. But as servants of the earl, they would suppress their own wills and do only his bidding.

  They were good men, yet he did not truly know any of them. Was this what God expected of those who served Him? Distant, mute, impersonal obedience?

  “Take the deer back to the House,” he told the hunters with a wave of dismissal. “And then go home to your wives and children. Inform Yardley I shall return within the hour.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The men bowed, and without further word, they turned their horses in the direction of Brackendale Manor.

  Beaumontfort let out a breath that misted white in the chill evening air. What sort of deity would wish his servants to function silently before him? What kind of master enjoyed absolute power?

  He didn’t.

  Do You, Lord? he prayed, lifting his eyes to the dark branches woven overhead. Is that what You want of me? Or do You long for something more of Your servant? a friendship born of intimacy? a passion for conversation and communion? an end to loneliness through the fulfillment of genuine love?

  Beaumontfort couldn’t deny he felt very alone these days. In fact, he would trade all his slavish staff for one hour with someone like Gwyneth Rutherford. Someone who would talk to him, challenge him, even dispute him. She was bright and witty. She possessed depths he had only begun to explore. Her loyalty pleased him, and her faith intrigued him. In his mind, she had become very real, very human, and more tha
n a little desirable.

  All that, and yet she was a servant. God’s servant. And his.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the silent forest. Though he could see none of the retreating hunters, he knew that if he set one foot into the little cottage, rumors of his presence there would fly through the village before dawn. Gwyn had made it clear she wanted no private moments with him. She wanted nothing, in fact, but the security of her job.

  Blast! He gave the slender tree trunk nearby a shove, which sent a flurry of snowflakes drifting onto his hat and coat. He was master, wasn’t he? Why should he care what the villagers said about him? He wanted to speak with Gwyn. He wanted to see her, ask the questions that haunted him, touch her hand, look into her brown eyes.

  And, by heaven, he would.

  Stalking through the iron gate at the edge of the property, he marched up the lavender-lined walkway and gave the heavy wooden door a sharp rap. “Mrs. Rutherford,” he announced, “it is I, the earl of Beaumontfort. Open, please.”

  He waited a moment, listening. Nothing. Surely they were inside. He knocked again. When no one answered, he stepped to one side and peered between the shutter’s slats through the tiny, glass-paned window. The two women were huddled before the fire, Gwyn’s arms around Mrs. Rutherford, whose knitting lay amid letters scattered across the floor.

  Beaumontfort frowned. Gwyn had told the footman in the stables that the old woman was ill. He shuddered, recalling the devastation that disease had caused in his own life.

  Trying the doorknob, he found that it turned easily. The moment he leaned inside, he could hear sobs and cries of anguish. “Mrs. Rutherford?” he called out. “Are you all right?”

  Gwyn lifted her head, her cheeks wet with tears. The moment she spotted him, her expression darkened. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I was passing by. I thought to look in on Mrs. Rutherford.”

  “At this hour? Nonsense!” Gwyn leapt to her feet and waved her arms at him.“Get out, William! Leave us at once. We’ve enough trouble on our hands without becoming the scandal of the whole village. You march straight out that door, sir, and do not set foot inside our home again!”

  Lest she become even more agitated, Beaumontfort exited the cottage. But as Gwyneth made to shut the door, he grabbed her arm and pulled her outside. On the doorstep, she jerked out of his grip and pushed the heel of her hand across her damp cheek.

  “Don’t ever come here again!” she cried. “I cannot bear to see you, and I won’t have Mum subjected to gossip. You have no idea—”

  “Then why don’t you tell me,” he cut in. “What’s happened that has left you in tears? Is it her health? I can fetch a doctor from Bowness on Windermere. I have every—”

  “Our troubles are none of your affair, William. I can accept no further favors from you. The villagers will accuse me of acting improperly with you, don’t you see? There is nothing you can do for us. Nothing!”

  “I can do anything for you. Anything you need.” He touched her cheek. “Please let me help you, Gwyn.”

  She shook her head. “Truly you cannot. When I learned I would never have children, I thought my dreams were dead. And then our men were killed in the mine explosion, and I believed we were ruined for good. But God sheltered us under His wings. He brought us here to Cumbria, He gave me a position at the House, He provided us this . . . this beautiful . . . dear cottage . . .”

  Covering her face with her hands, she gave a sob that wrenched his heart. He slipped his arms around her and drew her close. “Gwyn, you must speak openly with me. Is it Mrs. Rutherford? Let me carry her up to the House. I’ll send for a doctor at once. I’ll ride to Bowness myself.”

  Her fingers clutched the fabric of his hunting coat as she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. For a moment she said nothing, swallowing her tears and trying to stem the flood of emotion. He clutched her tightly, aware of the fragility of her thin frame and the threadbare fabric of her dress. She was poor and cold and in need.

  God, I can do so much to help this woman! Show me how to reach her. Let me touch her life as she has touched mine.

  “No,” she said, pushing him back. “We must trust God to provide. Go home, William. Leave us in peace.”

  “God has provided already. Can you not see that God has sent me to you, Gwyn? I want to help. I care about Mrs. Rutherford. I care about you . . . very much.”

  Her eyes focused on his as he cupped the side of her face in his hand. She reached up, covering his fingers with hers and pressing her cheek against his palm. Her flesh was so soft. Her heart so pure. What more could he desire in life than this woman’s presence? He ran his thumb across the delicate skin beneath her eye, absorbing the dampness of her tears and the gentle brush of her lashes.

  “You have become precious to me, Gwyn,” he murmured. “I treasure you, and I long to keep you near.”

  “No, you cannot—”

  “I should not have asked you to go with me alone to Bowness. I beg your forgiveness.”

  “You have no reason to abase yourself. I’m naught but a poor widow, William. I’m your servant—”

  “And I am yours.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I will serve you, Gwyneth, as long as I may honor you as you honor me.”

  “To honor me, you must leave me in peace. Great trouble has fallen upon us, and we have little hope of redemption.”

  “Tell me your trouble.”

  “A letter came from Wales. ’Tis the coal mine. We owe a large debt—property taxes and machinery that remains in arrears— and we cannot meet it. Now we have learned that our creditors are demanding immediate satisfaction.”

  “Can you answer their demand?”

  “No.” She twisted her hands together. “Mum is beside herself with despair. I fear for her health. I must go inside.”

  “Stay a moment longer. Let me help you, Gwyn. I shall put one of my barristers onto the matter. Perhaps there is something I can do to relieve the situation.”

  “Do you wish to purchase a failed coal mine in Wales?” she asked, her dark eyes imploring. “I think not. You’re a businessman, that much about you I know for certain. Your properties flourish, your investments grow, your wealth increases. To risk your finances by helping two poor widows pay their debts in a useless Welsh mining venture would be heedless and foolish. Ridding ourselves of the property is our only hope for salvation, but who would purchase a mine in which no one dares to labor? Of course you will not do it. You’re a good man, William, and an honorable landlord. But I do not believe you will act recklessly out of a misguided ambition to assist a penniless widow who has briefly captured your fancy. I cannot blame you. Mrs. Rutherford will not hold you responsible.”

  “Gwyn, you must give me time. Allow me the opportunity to think this through and make a plan. I can help you; I’m certain of it.”

  She shook her head. “You must go now, William. Please go.”

  “Why do you push me away? Do you care so little for me?”

  “And how shall I care for you? As one friend for another? No, for you are a man, and a lord, and by far my superior in situation.”

  “Care for me as a woman cares for a man.”

  “And become your mistress? your illicit lover? Is that what you suggest?”

  “No, of course not,” he protested.

  “But what other hope is there for association between a man of your rank and a woman of mine? My God does not permit any intimacy between unmarried men and women, William. And I cannot disobey His command. I am His servant.”

  “And mine!” He caught her roughly in his arms. “I want you with me, Gwyn. I have the wealth and power to overcome any obstacle between us. Allow me to make this happen. I shall take you into my home and provide a place for you there as my guest. I’ll care for Mrs. Rutherford. Every need will be met. Everything you dream of—”

  “Honor. Faith. Servitude.” She gripped his coat sleeves. “Those are my desires, William! When I ga
ve my life to Christ, I laid aside any earthly dreams of passion or wealth. I cannot obey my heavenly Father and obey you at the same time. How can you say I would be your guest? No one would believe such an arrangement between us—not even I.”

  “You misunderstand,” he said.

  “Do I? I understand that you ask of me more than I can give you. I must choose Christ, William! Let me go. Let me go!”

  Pushing out of his arms, she rushed into the cottage and slammed the door shut. Breathing hard, he listened as the iron bolt dropped into place. To serve Christ or the earl of Beaumontfort— was that the choice he had given Gwyn?

  Dear God, what have I done?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I understand the Rutherford cottage is to be sold.” Mrs. Riddle stood in the foyer, hands tightly clasped, as Gwyneth twined swags of pine branches along the banister. “How very sad for you both.”

  Gwyneth bit her lip to keep from responding. The housekeeper’s delight was evident in her tone. She soon would be rid of the upstart Welshwoman who threatened her position at Brackendale House. Rumors had been flying that Gwyneth was to succeed Mrs. Riddle as head housekeeper by the start of the new year. Nothing the young woman said would stop the gossip, and Mrs. Riddle’s agitation grew by the day. Gwyneth knew she would like nothing better than to dismiss her rival. Perhaps now that the Rutherfords’ meager hopes had died, Mrs. Riddle hoped to purchase the cottage for herself. Gwyneth wouldn’t put it past the woman.

  “I’d always believed that cottage and t’ lands around it belonged to Brackendale Manor,” Sukey Ironmonger said as she pinned a red silk ribbon to the swag. “It’s built so near t’ village. Everyone assumed it was a part of t’ earl’s holdin’s. I wonder if he even knows he doesn’t own that land.”