A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “Calm yourself, child.” Mrs. Rutherford stood and slipped an arm around Gwyneth’s shoulder. “I am forced to take what I can get for t’ property. There have been no other offers. I have no choice.”

  “You must have a choice! There must be something you can do.”

  “Only one thing.” Her eyes misted. “I can fall upon t’ mercy of t’ earl. I can ask you to go to him and plead with him to give us aid. My husband was his cousin. He’s my relative, though distant, and I feel sure he would help two lonely widows. If you implore him, I know he’ll ask nothin’ in return.”

  Stricken, Gwyneth searched the worn face before her. “You want me to beg?”

  “Go to t’ Christmas ball tonight, Gwynnie. When you find t’ earl, sit yourself near him, no matter how it looks to t’ others. Lay yourself at his feet, if you must. He’s been kind to you. Ask him to pay our debt and allow us to live t’ remainder of our days in t’ cottage.” A tear made its way down her weathered cheek. “I know of naught more we can do, Gwynnie. We have no other hope. I know he cares for you—I have seen it in his eyes. And he himself has fond memories of this cottage. For the sake of his own family’s holdings, perhaps he would help us.”

  “But you said God would provide.”

  “He has. He provided Donald Maxwell. And He provided t’ earl. Now we must do our part.”

  Gwyneth clutched the woman’s frail shoulders. Mum had no idea of the words of passion, anger, forgiveness, and rejection that had passed between her and William. If Gwyneth went to him, what would he think of her? That she was using his kindness to save herself? That she cared for his financial assistance but not his person?

  Oh, God, surely You cannot expect me to go before William and beg for mercy! Surely You cannot mean to make me do this! Show us some other way. Provide another answer . . .

  “You could wear your blue dress,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “And I shall let you borrow my brooch. How will t’ earl resist you?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mortification shrouding her like a black shawl, Gwyneth stepped into the foyer of Brackendale Manor and removed her bonnet. The attendees gathered would recognize at once that she did not belong among the landed gentry and peerage who graced the halls. Her gown was of simple blue muslin, its neckline graced with nothing more than a single row of handmade lace. Though she had put up her hair in a braided knot, she had only a thin blue ribbon to adorn it. Her gloves were threadbare, her slippers worn at the toes.

  She eased past the elegant company and edged her way along the side walls, wishing she could disappear altogether. She must find William, plead with him to spare the cottage, and then escape into the blessed darkness of night. If only she could accomplish her task without drawing attention to herself. If only her plight were not so extreme. If only she were not reduced to crawling on her knees . . . begging . . .

  Mum’s favorite passage of Scripture slipped into her thoughts. “If any man desire to be first, the same shall be last of all, and servant of all.” Servant of all. This was Gwyneth’s aim and her commitment—to serve Mum, and in serving her, to serve the Lord God.

  “I am quite fond of the theatre,” a woman said nearby.“Although I confess I do not like to go every night, as Fanny does.”

  “I protest!” another responded in a peal of laughter. “I certainly leave my calendar free for opera.”

  “And for Christmas balls,” a gentleman said. “Does not the manor house appear grand this evening, my dear Fanny? I believe Beaumontfort has employed a better staff than last year. I understand that later we are to have a small nativity play performed by the village children. True meaning of Christmas, and all that. Splendid notion, don’t you think?”

  Feeling that every eye in the room must be upon her, Gwyneth slid past the group. She spotted the earl’s footmen tending the gathering, and she wondered what they must think of her to appear in this company without her dark uniform and white apron. Did they know she had been invited as a guest? Doubtful. And she would never admit that their master had committed such a breach of etiquette.

  Lifting up her hundredth prayer for divine assistance, she at last located the earl of Beaumontfort. He was surrounded by a bevy of beautiful young women, among them Miss Maxwell. Her arm looped through his, she leaned against his shoulder and chatted as though she were the fox that had captured the prize rooster. Donald Maxwell stood not far away, his oily curls agleam in the lamplight as he regaled a group of men with some story they found highly amusing.

  “And a pathetic fire that fairly belched with smoke!” he was saying as Gwyneth moved past him. “The old woman insisted she must have at least a hundred pounds for the place. She would not take less! And I told her I could give no more than seventy-five.”

  “Seventy-five! How much land did you say there was?” another fellow demanded, much diverted. “I believe you could be tried and hanged for robbery, Maxwell.”

  “At least one hundred acres of prime forest, and the property can boast a fair number of streams. Once I have torn down the cottage, I shall build myself a manor house to rival Brackendale itself.”

  Choking with disbelief, Gwyneth lowered her head and slipped around the man. Seventy-five pounds? How could Mrs. Rutherford have agreed to such a paltry sum? She had indeed been robbed— and by a man who meant to pull down the cottage at the first opportunity. Her resolve strengthened, she made for the earl.

  “Mrs. Rutherford!” he exclaimed on seeing her. “I am delighted you have come. Ladies, may I present Mrs. Gwyneth Rutherford.”

  The women curtsied.“Have we not met before?” Miss Maxwell asked. “You have a familiar look about you.”

  “Indeed, madam, I am—”

  “Mrs. Rutherford is my dear friend,” Beaumontfort said. “She assists in the management of my household.”

  Seven pairs of incredulous eyes fastened on Gwyneth. “You assist the earl?” Miss Maxwell asked.

  Gwyneth tried to smile as she glanced at William in a silent plea for assistance.

  “In fact, I could not manage my affairs without her,” he said. “The decor is splendid, Mrs. Rutherford. Magnificent. You have outdone yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gwyneth let out a breath, trying to make herself relax. It was useless. The women clustered closer, like wolves around a wounded lamb, moving in for a kill.

  “Is your husband a friend of the earl’s, then, Mrs. Rutherford?” Miss Maxwell asked. “I find this association most fascinating.”

  “I am a widow. I come from Wales.” Her speech sounded plain and inelegant. “And if I may—”

  “Wales?” The women looked at each other as though this in itself were a grand joke. “But how marvelous! Yet, you must find our company vastly boring, for we have nothing so amusing as your Welsh log-tossing games.”

  As the women giggled behind their gloves, Gwyneth turned to the earl. “My lord, if I may speak with you a moment, I would be much obliged.”

  “Indeed, I had been hoping to speak with you, Mrs. Rutherford. Excuse me, ladies.” Without hesitation, he detached himself from the astonished Miss Maxwell and escorted Gwyneth to a corner of the room. As the orchestra struck up the notes of another dance and revelers filled the floor, the earl took Gwyneth’s elbow and turned her to face him.

  “My lord,” she began, “I have come tonight to beg a kindness of you.”

  “And I, of you.” He smiled, his blue eyes warm. “But first I must tell you that you are truly lovely, Gwyn. I confess I feared you would not come.”

  “I would not have, sir, but Mrs. Rutherford has asked me to speak with you.”

  “Your mother-in-law? How fares the dear lady? I trust she is much improved.” At Gwyneth’s acknowledgment, he made as if to steer her through the long French doors into a less crowded parlor.

  But she held up her hand. “My lord—”

  “Call me William.”

  “You asked me to trust you, and in this matter I can hope for no other champion.”

&nbs
p; “But first, I must champion my own cause.” He took her hand. “Gwyneth, I have been thinking and praying about my future. About your future.” He touched her cheek. “About our future.”

  “Announce it then!” someone shouted. “Announce it, Maxwell! Share your good news.”

  At the raised voice, laughter, and cheers, the orchestra faltered and the dancing stopped. In a moment, Donald Maxwell was lifted bodily onto the dais and saluted with a round of applause. The earl slipped a protective arm around Gwyneth as he focused on the interruption of the evening’s festivities.

  “All right, all right!” Maxwell said to the crowd.“Beaumontfort, I am asked to give out my news for all to hear. You should have been the last to know—and therefore the most surprised—but at the behest of my friends, I shall tell you.”

  The earl’s jaw flickered with tension. “What news, cousin?”

  “We are to be neighbors once again, sir.” The man gave a dramatic bow. “Although my family’s property near Ambleside was swallowed up some years ago by Brackendale, recently I have arranged to purchase land adjoining yours. I mean to bring my sister to Cumbria and build for us a house that will rival any in the Lakelands.”

  At the applause, the earl set Gwyneth aside and walked toward the dais, his presence parting the crowd as though it were the river Jordan. Broad-shouldered, eyes flashing, he stepped onto the dais beside his cousin. The smaller man touched his oiled curls as the earl regarded him.

  “Welcome to Cumbria, Maxwell,” Beaumontfort said. “I am certain you will make your presence felt.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Yes, indeed.”

  “And may I ask the location of your new property? For I cannot recall any land for sale in these parts.”

  “Indeed, sir, in that you are mistaken.” Maxwell lifted his chin. “I am buying the cottage and nearly one hundred acres belonging to Mrs. Rutherford. The property lies near the village, and it possesses a fine prospect of Brackendale Manor. I believe we shall see one another’s lights of an evening. My sister and I will, of course, welcome you to visit us as often as you like. Indeed, my lovely sister—”

  “Mrs. Rutherford’s cottage, did you say?” the earl demanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gwyneth saw the earl’s focus dart toward her. She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. How could it be undone now? No matter that she throw herself on the earl’s mercy, his cousin had announced ownership. Begging would accomplish nothing. Even prayer seemed hopeless, though she shut her eyes and poured out her soul.

  “And when did this transaction occur?” the earl was asking.

  “This evening before the ball. Mrs. Riddle was good enough to—”

  “Riddle is behind this?” His voice rose. “To what end?”

  “She said she hoped merely to assist me in establishing a permanent connection to this district.”

  “And to assure her own permanent station, as well,” the earl said. “You wish to purchase Mrs. Rutherford’s land, cousin, and I assume you have seen to the welfare of the woman herself?”

  “She’ll have the purchase price. Why should her welfare be any of my concern?”

  “Indeed. Of course not,” the earl said. “She is merely an old woman of little wealth and even less import, is she not?”

  As the men continued their discussion, Gwyneth gathered her shawl about her. It was no use now. She must return to the cottage and help Mum pack their trunks. In the morning, she would go down to the village to inquire after lodgings from Sukey Ironmonger’s family. At least this one night, the two women would be safe in the cottage. But on the morrow . . .

  “I heartily congratulate you,” the earl announced, clapping his cousin on the back. “You have chosen a remarkable piece of property, Maxwell, and one that will give your family much pleasure for years to come.”

  Lowering her head, Gwyneth made her way through the crowd. Mum would be asleep by now, nodded off with her knitting on her lap. The fire would be low. She would stir it. And perhaps make a cup of tea.

  “I see that I was quite mistaken in my estimation of your character, Maxwell,” the earl said. “In offering to buy the cottage and land for a sum generous enough to retire Mrs. Rutherford’s debts, you prove yourself a worthy gentleman indeed.”

  “Generous?” someone cried. “He is paying a mere seventy-five pounds for the entire property.”

  “Seventy-five?” The earl’s eyebrows lifted. “Surely you must be mistaken, for I am certain my good cousin would offer no less than seventy-five hundred for such a finely situated estate.”

  Gwyneth paused and tried to make sense of the earl’s words. She had heard Maxwell give the sum at seventy-five pounds. Was William so naive as to believe well of his cousin? Or did he hope to humiliate Maxwell into paying a greater price? Either way, all was now lost. The cottage would be razed, and she and Mum would have no choice but to leave the Lake District.

  “Seventy-five hundred?” Maxwell said in a strangled voice.

  “Surely no less, for you have seen what excellent forests, lakes, and streams the property boasts. Indeed, Maxwell, you are a fine fellow, and I shall welcome you as my neighbor. Shall we not all congratulate such an esteemed man?”

  As the crowd began to applaud, William gave Maxwell a firm handshake. Then the earl stepped off the dais and searched the room. Though she could see the earl making his way through the crowd toward her, Gwyneth knew they must not be seen together. Indeed, she must race back to the cottage to inform Mum of this turn of events, for no doubt Maxwell would come this very night to clarify the matter.

  “Seventy-five hundred pounds?” someone said as she passed. “It must be a very fine estate indeed.”

  Confusion welling up inside her, Gwyneth grabbed her bonnet and hurried out the front door. She had hardly passed halfway down the gravel drive when she heard William calling out to her. Dear God, send him away! His society must not see us alone together. He will be humiliated—

  “Gwyn,” he called, “stay a moment. I shall speak with you.”

  She halted and stuffed her bonnet onto her head, the ribbons dangling loose down her dress. As she tried to tie them, he caught her hand and pulled her close.

  “Gwyn, why do you leave me?” he demanded. “Why must you always run from me?”

  “Oh, William, those people—”

  “Those people matter nothing to me. They require my acquaintance in business, they imagine themselves graced by my presence and I by theirs, they consider themselves my peers. Yet not one of them can I call a true friend. Not one has warmed my heart or tended to my spirit as you do, Gwyn. You are beautiful and good, and I cannot bear—”

  “Beaumontfort!” Maxwell barked as he and his company of friends approached. “Do you mean to have the Rutherford property for yourself, as your father took my family’s lands so many years ago? I assure you, my determination to regain my foothold in Cumbria remains unchanged. You were born to title and property, but I shall have them both in the end.”

  “By deceit and treachery, Maxwell?” The earl nodded. “Indeed, such actions do befit your character.”

  “You refer to my legitimate pursuit of your sister.”

  “My sister was but thirteen years old when you set your sights upon her. Can the pursuit of a mere child be called legitimate? I think not.”

  “Had you not interfered—”

  “I shall interfere in your machinations as often as I find them odious, cousin!” The earl turned to Gwyneth. “Please return to the House, madam. I fear these matters do not become the sensibilities of a lady.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but I shall go home to my mother-in-law instead,” she said.

  When Maxwell cut in with a curse, Gwyneth tugged her bonnet down over her ears and raced down the driveway.

  “I cannot understand the earl’s purpose,” Gwyneth said, kneeling at Mum’s feet, “for you are certain the offer was seventy-five pounds.”

  “Aye, Mr. Maxwell said it must be s
eventy-five and not a farthing more.” Mrs. Rutherford’s gnarled fingers clutched Gwyneth’s. “Oh, my dear, I am not pleased at t’ idea of that man comin’ here again.”

  “Nevertheless, he will come to clear the matter. And we must think how to speak to him. Did William mean to humiliate his cousin into raising the offered price?”

  “Nay, for then Mr. Maxwell would reject t’ purchase of t’ property—and who will buy my land if not Mr. Maxwell? Everyone will have heard of our debts now. No one will want t’ cottage for so great a sum, and we shall be turned out with nowhere to lay our heads. Oh, did you not speak in private with our dear Willie? I was so certain he could help us. Did you not go to him and kneel at his feet and beg?”

  “I did go to him, Mum. But we had no chance to speak before Mr. Maxwell—”

  At the hard knock on the door, Gwyneth grasped both her mother-in-law’s hands. “’Tis him. I can think only that we must accept the original offer and trust in God’s sufficiency to meet our need.”

  Steeling her nerves, she rose to her feet and threw open the door. But no one was there. Gwyneth searched the dark, crisp night. Icy tree branches creaked in the breeze. The half-frozen stream trickled over smooth stones with a soft gurgle. A tiny tug at her hem drew her attention.

  “Good heavens!” She knelt and scooped up a small brown and white puppy that stood wagging its tail and gazing up at her with huge brown eyes. “What has brought you out on this cold night?”

  “He has come about t’ cottage and land,” Mrs. Rutherford said firmly from her chair before the fire. “You must take it, Mr. Maxwell. We agreed to t’ seventy-five pounds, and that’s all I have to say.”

  “But this isn’t Mr. Maxwell at all! ’Tis a small puppy. And he’s wearing a red bow!” Cuddling the tiny ball of fur, she hurried to Mrs. Rutherford’s chair. “Look at him!”