A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “A corgi!” The old woman laughed in delight. “A corgi has come to us!”

  “All the way from Wales, I might add.” The earl of Beaumontfort walked into the cottage and removed his top hat. With a smile on his handsome face, he gave the women a bow.“A blessed Christmas to you both. I hope my gift gives you great pleasure.”

  “You brought him?” Mrs. Rutherford gathered the puppy in her arms and began to weep. “Oh, Gwynnie, didn’t I tell you our Willie was a good man?”

  “’Twas I who told you.”

  “Indeed, we both love you, sir!” Mum held out her hand to the earl, who knelt at her feet. “But what of your ball and all your friends? Have you left them?”

  “Those people are not true friends. I put on the Christmas ball to make amends for abandoning them in the midst of the London social season. Tonight, after Gwyneth had gone away, I realized the gathering’s purpose was completely mercenary—on the part of the host and his guests.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Rutherford asked.

  “Indeed, the ball was intended to solidify business relationships rather than to honor faithful and beloved companions. But here, in this small, quaint cottage, I have discovered more of friendship and warmth and family—greater rest—than I have ever known.”

  “My dear boy, how good you are.”

  “It is you who truly are good.”

  “Ah, what a fine lad, is he not, Gwynnie? And to bring us this wee dog! We have missed our beloved corgi so, and now you have given us this sweet puppy.”

  “But what of Donald Maxwell?” Gwyneth asked. “Surely you know he offered only seventy-five pounds for the property. Mum and I have no choice but to accept Mr. Maxwell’s—”

  “You will be hard-pressed to find him. The man has ridden for London this very night. To avoid publicly exposing himself for the cad that he is, Maxwell had no choice but to gracefully remove himself from the agreement—an action that will allow me to step in as benefactor.” The earl smiled. “Mrs. Rutherford, why did you not come to me with your plight at once?”

  “But why should you take pity on a poor widow who can offer you naught in return?”

  “Dear lady, you have given me two gifts more wonderful than I could have imagined. When I was but a lad, you taught me about God and led my feet onto the path of Christianity. Though I strayed, I have found my way again. My eyes now look only to Christ for guidance.”

  “Bless you, my boy.”

  “And as for the second gift.” He stood and held out one hand to Gwyneth. “I have no certainty that I may claim it. Yet I am here to plead for the single joy that will give my life abundance beyond measure.”

  As Mrs. Rutherford’s eyes crinkled with pleasure, the earl dropped to one knee at Gwyneth’s feet. She could hardly remain standing as she gazed down into blue eyes filled with such passion she feared she might drown in them. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.

  “Gwyneth Rutherford,” he said, “from you I have learned the true fulfillment that can come only through servitude. You have served me well. Now I beg that you will join me in a life of mutual submission. Will you consent to marry me?”

  Unable to stand any longer, Gwyneth fell to her knees and threw her arms around him. “William, I could wish for nothing more than to live as your wife! But how can it be right?”

  “How can it be wrong?”

  “Your society will—”

  “My society will soon understand the welcome news that the earl of Beaumontfort has taken a wife. They will convince themselves that such an unexpected union arose when the earl purchased a valuable property adjoining his estate. In addition, he has assumed responsibility for a Welsh coal mine, which he intends to make profitable once again. Not only did the earl enrich his holdings, but he took upon himself the welfare of his relatives by wedding the younger of the two. How very noble of him, they will say. What a fine fellow—and how clever to enrich himself in such a fashion.”

  Gwyneth swallowed. It was possible the peerage would accept this explanation. And after all, perhaps it was the truth. Could this be the reason for William’s pledge?

  “I doubt that my society will realize,” he continued, “that the riches I have gained have nothing to do with lands and cottages. I have found the rest and quietude I sought in coming back to Cumbria. More important, I have discovered their source. And that is you, Gwyn. I love you as I have loved no other. Please say you will abandon all hesitation and become my wife.”

  “I shall,” she said, holding tightly to his hands.

  Was it possible that God had heard and answered the secret plea of her heart? Had her heavenly Father truly blessed her with the home and family she had so desired? She was young enough yet that there would be children. And laughter. And skating parties, picnics, and strawberry picking.

  Oh, yes! But more than that . . . God had brought her love. True love. She looked into William’s eyes as his lips met hers. How blessed. How wonderful. How—

  “Glory be, Gwynnie, t’ puppy has hold of your knittin’!” Mrs. Rutherford cried. “T’ earl’s sweater will be in shreds! Help, help!”

  “My sweater?” William asked.

  “’Twas to be your Christmas gift!” Gwyneth exclaimed, leaping to her feet in pursuit of the rapidly unraveling sweater. The puppy took off around the table, trailing blue yarn that wrapped around the wooden legs. Flapping her skirts, Gwyneth raced after the scamp who scuttled underneath the bed. William got down on all fours and felt around in the shadows just as the pup bolted out the other side, her knitting in a tangle around his feet.

  The puppy barked with excitement and bounded between William’s legs. As the yarn tied the earl’s legs together in a hopeless knot, Gwyneth fell back against a chair, consumed with giggles. Mrs. Rutherford chuckled as she made a swipe after the furry brown bolt of lightning. The sound of laughter filled the air and drifted like a warm blanket of hope as snow began to fall on the Christmas cottage in the woods.

  GWYNETH RUTHERFORD’S

  CRUMPETS

  1 tsp active dry yeast

  1 tsp sugar

  ¼ cup warm water

  13 cup milk

  1 egg, lightly beaten

  4 tbsps butter, melted

  1 cup unsifted all-purpose flour

  ½ tsp salt

  Mix yeast with sugar; add water and let stand 5 minutes until foamy. Stir in milk, egg, and 1 tbsp melted butter. Add flour and salt. Using a wooden spoon, mix until well blended to make a smooth batter. Cover the bowl with a cloth towel, and leave in a warm place to rise until almost doubled (45 minutes to 1 hour).

  With the remaining melted butter, thoroughly coat the insides of several crumpet rings, 3-inch flan rings, or clean tuna cans with both ends removed. Also use the melted butter to grease the bottom of a heavy frying pan or griddle. Arrange as many rings as possible in the pan.

  Over low heat, heat the rings in the pan. Pour enough batter into each ring to fill it halfway. Cook for 5 to 7 minutes, until bubbles appear and burst on the surface. Remove rings and turn the crumpets. Cook 2 to 3 minutes more, until lightly browned.

  Repeat with remaining batter. Serve crumpets hot and generously buttered.

  BEHOLD THE LAMB

  The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!”

  JOHN 1:29

  PROLOGUE

  “I won’t forget what you taught me,” the boy whispered as he looked up into his father’s blue eyes. Flakes of powdery snow drifted down like confectioner’s sugar, settling on the shoulders of the two figures crouched in the shadows. Just over the top of an evergreen hedge, a full moon gleamed as bright and silver as a new shilling.

  “And what did I teach you, Mick?” the father asked.

  “That I must never be discovered.”

  “That’s right, lad.” The man bent and tousled his son’s thick brown hair. With grimy fingers, he opened a burlap sack. “Now tell me again—what
are we goin’ to put in ’ere?”

  “Silver forks and knives and spoons. Silver candlesticks. Silver coins. Silver trays, teapots, and anythin’ else we can find.”

  “Good lad. Them silver things makes a bit o’ noise, they does, so you must be quiet as a kitten, eh?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Mick pulled his stockings up over his knees, but an icy chill crept through ragged holes in the knitted wool. “I’m very cold, Papa. I want to go ’ome.”

  “Soon enough, Mick. But we’ve come all this way out into the countryside to do our work. Are you ready, my boy?”

  “I’m ready, Papa.” Mick peered around the corner of the tall hedge and studied the rambling manor house a short distance away. In the moonlight, its pale stonework gleamed a soft silver as it settled deep in the silvery snow. An icy pond stretched out— slick and coated with silver—in front of the manor house, and the boy wondered if rich people made everything they owned from that precious metal.

  Shivering, he slipped his hand into his father’s warm palm. Though he was proud to be considered old enough to work, Mick knew this was a dangerous business. His father had been home for only a month after serving a two-year sentence in the London gaol. Not long before their father was released, Mick’s only brother had been captured by a constable while doing a job at a shop on Regent Street. Barely fifteen, he’d been shipped off to Australia to build a railroad. Mick didn’t know if magistrates would send six-year-old boys away on a ship to Australia. But he didn’t like the idea at all. He would miss his mummy.

  “Now then, lad, you see them bars?” His father whispered the question against Mick’s ear as he pointed out the wroughtiron grillwork covering the ground-floor windows. “See the way it curves round there? I want you to slip in through that little space until you’re standin’ on the windowsill. Then push open the glass pane and let yourself down inside the kitchen. After you make sure nobody’s about, I want you to ’urry across and open the door where I’ll be waitin’. You understand that, Mick?”

  His father gripped his shoulder so tightly that it hurt. The boy nodded, though he didn’t see how he was ever going to fit through that tiny space between the iron bars.

  “And what did I teach you, Mick? Tell me again.”

  “Never be discovered.” The boy repeated the admonition, silently reminding himself that he must be as quiet as a wee kitten, moving about on soft tiptoes, never making a sound.

  “Go on then, lad. That’s my boy.”

  His father gave him a rough shove, and Mick scampered through the snow toward the manor house. As he crouched beside the window, his heartbeat hammered in his head. Papa had assured him the family who owned the house had all gone out to a Christmas party and wouldn’t be back until much later. But what if someone were still about? A small child might have stayed behind. Or a cook preparing a pudding for tomorrow’s lunch.

  Mick leaned his cold cheek against the frigid iron. Through a crack in the glass, he could smell something wonderful. His small, empty stomach gave a loud gurgle, and he caught his breath in fear. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his father waving him onward.

  “Never be discovered,” Mick whispered as he slipped one leg through the curved place in the grille. He was going to do better than his brother, he decided. He was not going to be sent away to Australia. He would be so quiet that he would never have to build a railroad across the hot desert far away from his mummy.

  Mick worked his other leg through the grille and then edged himself down into the cramped space beside the closed window. Holding his breath, he twisted one arm until it fit through. The other arm took more work. When his elbow bumped against the glass, he stiffened in terror.

  If Mick was sent away, who would look after Mummy as she lay in bed coughing and coughing? Who would wipe away the blood with a rag? Who would stir the thin broth and keep coal on the fire? Papa was usually at the Boar’s Head Tavern talking about business with his friends, or working his way along the riverfront where he sold his goods. Someone had to look after Mummy.

  Taking a determined breath, the boy twisted and turned his head against the iron bars as he tried to pull it through the curve. One of his ears caught on a lump of jagged iron, but it tore loose as his head finally popped free of the bars. Mick imagined showing the wound to his mummy like a badge of honor. She would smile and pat his hand.

  Bare fingers against the cold glass, Mick gave the window a gentle push. To his relief, it swung wide. Instantly, the aroma of a hundred magical delights wafted up through the air. The smell of freshly baked bread and apple tarts and roasted turkey and clove-studded ham and things Mick couldn’t even name swirled around him like a dream. Catching himself before he exclaimed in wonder, he clung to the wrought-iron grille.

  “Never be discovered,” he mouthed again. Perched on the windowsill, he spotted a long table just below. A layer of fine, white flour covered the pine surface where a cook had been rolling out dough. Mick knew better than to tread in the flour and then track it across the kitchen floor.

  Lowering himself down the wall, he balanced for a moment on the edge of the table and then leapt gingerly to the floor. The cavernous kitchen was dark, save the remains of a fire that glowed brightly in the grate. Though he ached to warm himself, Mick crept across the chilly black-and-white tiles toward the far door.

  He was a kitten, he told himself, and far too clever to make noise. Reaching the door, he stood on tiptoe and drew back the bar that held it shut. Like a stealthy black cat, Mick’s father appeared suddenly through the opening. He pressed his back flat against the kitchen wall and gave the boy’s hair another tousle.

  This was wonderful, Mick thought as he followed his father up a steep flight of stairs and past a green curtain of heavy felt. He was a part of the business now! He was doing quite well, too, copying the way his papa walked along the edge of the corridor, staying in the shadows, making not a single sound. They were a team, and soon they would have enough money to buy Mummy some porridge and a blanket. And they would buy a whole sack of coal for the fire. Maybe Mick would even get a new pair of stockings.

  “Come in ’ere, now,” Papa whispered against the boy’s ear as he pulled him into a huge parlor. For a moment, Mick could only stare, blinking in shock. The whole room was blanketed in warmth and richness. Heavy red velvet curtains hung over the windows, thick patterned carpets covered the floors, and immense tapestries draped the walls. Portraits and landscapes hung by cords from picture rails. Shelves of books stood sentry near the doors. Like the women who spent their evenings in the alleyways near Mick’s flat, the furniture lounged about the rooms—brocade settees, wicker chaises, sumptuous chairs, tables covered by layers of silk and taffeta.

  “The dinin’ room will be that way,” Mick’s father whispered as he pointed toward a distant door. “I’ll collect the silverware and the candlesticks. You stay in ’ere and gather up clocks and snuffboxes and anythin’ else you find.”

  “Silver?” Mick clarified. He wanted to be sure he got it right.

  “That’s it.” His father gave him a grin that sent a thrill of warmth right down to Mick’s toes. “You’re a good lad.”

  As his father crept away, Mick began to slip across the parlor in search of things to put in the burlap bag. He found a small silver box on a table, and he dropped it into the sack. Then he spotted a fine clock under a glass dome. Careful to make not a sound, he lifted the dome, gathered the clock into his arm, and set the dome down again. He was doing very well indeed.

  On a desk, he found a silver pen. He slipped it into his bag as he stepped toward something silver that seemed to dangle in the moonlight. Stopping before the object, he studied it carefully. Egg-shaped, it was pointed at each end, and it twisted and spun gently in the cool night air. Gingerly, Mick put out his finger and touched the thing. It swung away and then danced back again.

  How was this magical thing suspended in midair? Mick took a step back and peered upward into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, h
e slowly realized the silver ball was hanging from the branch of a tree. And beside it hung a red ball. And a gold one. Tiny white candles, too, had been balanced on little clips all over the tree. The more Mick looked at the tree, the more he saw. There were strings of cranberries and long strands of crystal beads and tiny paper cutouts of a man with a long, white beard and a red suit.

  Mick thought about taking one of the silver balls for his father’s sack. Surely that would buy the finest wool blanket in all London. But what if Mick gave a pull and the whole tree fell down? And why did the rich people grow trees in their parlors? And why did they hang silver balls on them? And who was the man in the red suit?

  Moving on, Mick found another silver box and a pair of silver scissors lying beside an embroidery hoop. He tucked them into his sack. He was almost back to the main door when he noticed a strange little house sitting on a table.

  Mick peered at the house, wondering if tiny people might be living inside it—tiny people with their own silver boxes and parlor trees. As his eyes focused on the shapes, he realized that indeed it was filled with people. But they were only statues carved out of wood and painted in bright colors.

  A mummy and a papa stood near a small box filled with hay. Their baby lay on the hay with a white cloth wrapped around him. The child looked sweet and kind, and something inside Mick longed to pick him up and hold him. Next to the mummy and papa stood three kings, who were also looking down at the baby boy. At the other side of the little house, Mick spotted a man carrying a long stick. He was standing next to a donkey and a cow. And right at his feet lay a tiny lamb.

  “What did you get, lad?” The voice at Mick’s ear nearly startled him into dropping his sack.