A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “I’ll see that she gets the letter,” Rosalind said, taking the tray.

  “Thanks, ma’am, and a happy Christmas to ye!”

  “Happy Christmas.” Rosalind sighed as she walked toward the library. Of course she had known this would come. Mick would try to explain himself. Or make some offer of apology. Or perhaps he would guess that she had no course but to expose him. Might the letter contain a bribe?

  Stepping into the library, she broke the seal and opened the letter.

  “‘Miss Treadwell,’” she read softly. His ill-favored penmanship bore testimony to the fact that he had never attended Cambridge. Why hadn’t she known from the beginning that something was amiss?

  “‘I have nothing to offer you now but the truth,’” she read.

  I was six years old when my father and I entered your manor house one Christmas Eve whilst you were out. It was the first time I had assisted him in a burglary, but it was not the last. After collecting most of your silver, we prepared to leave, when my father noticed some items on the desk in the parlor. As he took the papers, I was drawn to the small set of figures on a side table. From among them, I selected the lamb, which became my constant companion during all the years that followed.

  There it is! she thought. He has convicted himself! This letter would be all that was required to bring about his downfall. She returned to reading.

  My father took the money he had stolen from your home and spent most of it in a manner that made it unable to be reclaimed. When I was twelve, my father died violently. Having lost my mother some years before—the very night we invaded your home, in fact—I was compelled to see to my own fortunes. It was at that time I determined that the only road to security lay in the accumulation of property, prestige, and power. I took what little money my father had not gambled away and began to invest it in small enterprises. I educated myself through the reading of books, and I erased all trace of my early speech patterns.

  By sheer determination, I found myself growing wealthy and gaining in both reputation and power. Realizing that I could not hope to further myself if anyone learned of my wretched past, I invented a fabulous tale of a wealthy uncle in India—which to my great surprise was willingly believed by one and all.

  “I knew it!” She wadded up the letter. “He never lived in India! It was all a lie. No doubt he grew up in some wretched rookery on the East Side!”

  Stalking across the library to the stand where the Bible was displayed, Rosalind suddenly thought of the night Mick had sat beside her father and poured out the story of his mother’s death. That hadn’t been a lie, of that she was most certain. He had loved his mother dearly, and she had died of consumption without even a blanket to warm her.

  “Oh, God!” she cried, lifting her head as if she might call her heavenly Father to come at once—and in person. “I don’t want to feel any sympathy for him. He is wicked!”

  All the same, she smoothed out the letter and resumed reading.

  By the time I purchased the factories in Manchester and Nottingham, which I still own, I had washed my hands of every trace of the guile that had given me my start. I had erased my past, I felt sure. I wanted nothing more than to continue along the path to wealth and power, vowing to myself that I would never again be forced to live like a common thief.

  I provided valuable services to a certain member of Parliament during the recent wars, and I was rewarded with a baronetcy. But I had begun to dream higher still. My goal became absolute legitimacy. I determined to marry a woman whose titles and lands I could obtain as my own and pass down to my sons—as though I were a true peer and not the son of a criminal whom I hardly knew because he had spent most of my childhood in gaol.

  “Oh, dear!” Reaching for the arm of a chair, Rosalind lowered herself weakly to the seat. This was more dreadful than she could have imagined. But it was not Mick’s clawing ambition that dismayed her. Instead, she saw him as a ragged little boy whose papa had taught him the ways of thievery, and a mama—dearly loved! —who had died a terrible death and left him all alone.

  My good friend, Sir William Cooper—who has not the slightest idea of my background, I assure you—set about to help me find the perfect woman to be my wife. She must be the sole heir to her father’s estate, we decided. Ideally, she must be compliant, weak-minded, poor, and easily wooed by the promise of wealth. We chose you.

  “Well!” Rosalind snapped. “Imagine that!”

  Of course, you were exactly the opposite. You have a mind of your own, a wit as sharp as any blade, a heart rich in faith, and no interest in my showers of gowns and jewels. In short, you are nothing like the woman I wanted and everything like the one I need. I have fallen deeply in love with you, Rosalind, and I know that losing you will be a grief as great to me as any loss I have ever suffered.

  Let me close by assuring you that until tonight, I had no idea it was your family that my father and I had victimized. I am grieved and sorrowful beyond words for the pain this crime inflicted. If I could do anything to change my past, believe me, I would do it gladly. I can only thank you for showing me that I am forgiven by God. Now I am prepared to pay for my sin in the eyes of all England.

  Rosalind started to lower the letter; then she noticed a small sentence scribbled at the bottom beneath his signature. She held the paper to the light.

  I am sorry I stole your lamb.

  Choking down a sob, she folded the page and clutched it tightly in her hand. Oh, Mick! Why had it turned out this way? She had no choice but to expose him. Knowing what he had done, she could never marry him. But if she didn’t marry him, she would have very little means to provide for her father in the last years of his life. Perhaps Mick would offer to pay for her silence. But no, he hadn’t done that in his letter, and he never would. Such a thing would be as wicked as stealing. Mick had clearly stated that he had put all his underhanded dealings behind him long ago. Indeed, he had begged forgiveness from God for that past.

  But oh, how her family had suffered at his hand! Each time her father had sold off another parcel of land, she had believed it might kill him to do so. And when they had dismissed their servants and moved into the gamekeeper’s cottage, her papa had closed himself into a room for nearly a month. Rosalind had feared he would lose his mind! In fact, she often blamed his many ailments on the transition to poverty.

  Suddenly remembering she had abandoned her father in his chair upstairs, she felt a rush of guilt. She must help him into bed at once, for it was surely past midnight! Rising, she started for the door before remembering her mission to the library.

  “St. John, chapter one,” she said, turning through the old Bible’s pages. “Verse twenty-nine. ‘The next day John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.’”

  Rosalind turned away. The Lamb of God was Jesus Himself, the One who had taken away the sin of the world. Why had her father been so determined that she recall this Scripture? He had placed the little stolen lamb on the notation. “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.”

  The Lamb . . . the Christ child who had come to earth so many years before . . . had sacrificed Himself to take away sin. All sin. Even sin as wicked as Mick’s.

  Feeling broken and weary, Rosalind climbed the steps back to her father’s bedroom. As she had feared, he had fallen asleep in his chair. With some effort, she managed to wake him and help him stagger into bed. It had been a long night, one filled with the ecstasy of love and the bitterness of betrayal. She could hardly imagine how she would survive the day to come.

  She stepped into her own silent bedroom and shut the door behind her. From her window, she could see the corner of Mick’s house across the square. What was he doing now, alone in the darkness? She could almost imagine him staring at his darkened Christmas tree—the only tree he’d ever had! And nearby, the small nativity set would be sitting on a table, a reminder of the holy Child who had come to earth to give His life for
the salvation of one and all.

  For Rosalind.

  For William and Caroline.

  For Lord Buxton and Lord Remington.

  For every person in every house on Grosvenor Square, and every person in every squalid rookery in the East End.

  And for Mick Stafford, too.

  Christ had given His life for everyone who would beg forgiveness for sin and accept that gift of salvation . . . just as Mick had done in his parlor when she sat with him on the settee and helped him to pray.

  “Oh, Father God!” Rosalind cried aloud again as she jerked the curtains shut and began to tear off the fine evening gown and pearls she had worn for that special evening. “Father, please help me know what to do! He ruined my family, and by rights he should pay for it. I have the means to destroy him!”

  She grabbed the little lamb and the letter Mick had sent. “By all that is just, this letter should be published in every newspaper from London to Manchester. This lamb is the proof of his guilt. And he is guilty! Horribly, despicably guilty!”

  Kneeling down beside her bed, she wept into the downy coverlet. Her heart ached for the man she had learned to love. And her heart broke for her family, whose fortunes had been destroyed by that very same man. What should she do? Expose him before all the world—ruin his businesses, demand reparation for the wealth he had stolen, drag his reputation through the muck, and strip away every measure of goodwill he had labored so hard to earn?

  Or should she hold her tongue—return to the gamekeeper’s cottage and live out the remainder of her years in the manner in which she had always planned? Should she extend to Mick the forgiveness that God had granted her? Should she rise above all that would seem right and fair and just in the eyes of the world— and give this man the undeserved blessing of grace?

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered into the coverlet. “I’m tired, so very tired.”

  Unable to think or plan, she folded her hands and began the prayer she had said every night since early childhood:

  “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,

  Bless Thy little lamb tonight,

  Through the darkness be Thou near me,

  Keep me safe till morning light.”

  She crawled up into the bed and drew the coverlet over her chilled shoulders. “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,” she whispered again. “Bless Thy little lamb tonight . . . bless Thy little lamb. . . .”

  Mick stood inside the apse of the church and studied the black-and-white marbled floor beneath his feet. He did not know what the coming hour would bring, but he fully expected it to be the worst of his life. Just past dawn, a breathless footman had arrived with a note from Rosalind.

  I shall see you at church in the morning, ten sharp—R.

  Of course, that was the hour they had set for their wedding, and the church was filling rapidly with friends and acquaintances, members of Parliament, lords and ladies of London’s highest society, and even a cousin or two from the royal family. Everyone wore his or her finest Christmas garb—red and green velvets, burgundy silks, shimmering gold and silver, and sparkling diamond tiaras. And all of them would be sitting in the church, listening intently, when Rosalind Treadwell exposed him as a liar and a thief.

  Mick let out a breath that turned to vapor in the chilly morning air. He couldn’t blame her—and he would not run from the humiliation. He deserved the public reprimand, and he might as well have it all done to him at once. He knew Rosalind too well to doubt that she would choose a bold manner in which to have her victory. She was very clever, and this would be a death knell from which he could not possibly recover.

  “Have you got the ring?” William asked, hurrying across the floor. “Rosalind has arrived in her carriage, and they’ve already brought Lord Buxton to the front of the church.”

  “Never mind about the ring,” Mick said.

  “I beg your pardon? Have you lost it?”

  “Let’s just get on with this.” He brushed past his friend and moved out into the sanctuary, where the choirboys were singing in their high-pitched tones. After Rosalind read the letter condemning him, he would speak a few words confirming its accuracy. He would then return to his home to meet with his accountants and prepare whatever sort of remuneration Rosalind felt was appropriate to restore herself and her father to their former position. Following that, an extended trip would be in order. Perhaps he would finally go to India.

  Mick clasped his hands behind his back as the music swelled and the guests turned to look at the woman coming down the aisle. This was going to be the most difficult part of the whole matter. Seeing Rosalind. Seeing the hatred in those beautiful gray eyes. Knowing he had lost her forever.

  He felt as though he were a man condemned to the gallows as he lifted his head to meet her. And there she stood—in her bridal gown! Rosalind laid her hand on his and knelt to the altar. Mick could hardly breathe as he forced his knees to bend.

  What sort of trickery was this? What did she mean to do to him?

  “Dearly beloved,” the minister began.

  Mick tried to listen. But he could hear nothing save the loud pounding in his ears. His heart felt as though it might bolt right out of his chest. What was she doing? What was happening?

  He stole a glance at Rosalind. She had bowed her head and closed her eyes, and Mick realized suddenly that everyone was praying. Praying? Rosalind was supposed to be reading the letter he had sent her! She was to stand before the assembly and destroy him—not kneel beside him and . . .

  “Wilt thou, Michael John Stafford,” the minister was asking him, “have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  Mick stared at the man.

  Rosalind nudged him with her elbow.

  Mick swallowed and tried to make himself speak. “I will,” he managed.

  “And wilt thou, Rosalind Elizabeth Treadwell,” the minister continued, “have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him—”

  “And I forgive him,” Rosalind inserted.

  The minister cleared his throat. “Yes, well, indeed . . . as I was saying . . . in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will,” she replied in a firm voice.

  “The ring,” the minister whispered.

  In a daze, Mick dug in his pocket and took out the ring he had bought so long ago. Rosalind held out her hand, and he slipped the ring onto her finger. The minister let out a breath of relief, said several more long speeches that Mick couldn’t begin to decipher, and began to offer the final blessing. “‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,’” he said. “‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.’”

  “Yes,” Rosalind said softly as she squeezed Mick’s hand. “Oh yes.”

  “‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.’”

  As they stood together, the minister placed his hands on them. “Forasmuch as Michael and Rosalind have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other; I pronounce that they are man and wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  Mick barely had time to blink before Rosalind was in his arms and kissing him ardently on the lips. In the next instant, they seemed to be flying down the aisle and into a carriage. Before he could catch his breath to speak to her, she had floated out of the carriage and into his house. Mick followed behind her until he discovered himself
in his own parlor—where his Christmas tree glowed with a thousand white candles.

  “Jolly good show, old man!” William cried, giving him a slap on the back.

  “All the happiness in the world, Mick!” Caroline pecked him on the cheek.“Did you know you’ve given William the sudden inspiration to woo me until I have fallen madly in love with him?”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to the Continent on an extended holiday—just the two of us. We shall stay at a château in France, where he has promised to take me dancing every night until I have worn out three pairs of shoes!”

  Giggling, Caroline slipped her arm through her husband’s and hurried away to greet the throngs of visitors arriving at the house. Mick gazed around him as a towering white cake was cut and passed out. Hundreds of gifts were laid on tables set up about the room.

  Seemingly every member of the peerage stepped forward to wish him well . . . him and Rosalind, for somehow she appeared at his side in the most enchanting gown of soft pink velvet. She smiled at every one, chatted in the friendliest manner, and all the while kept her hand firmly clasped in his.

  Finally, Mick could bear it no longer. He left her side and caught up with William, who was kissing Caroline under a sprig of mistletoe in the foyer. “Listen, William,” he said, taking his friend by the arm, “I must know what is going on here.”

  “Mick?” William frowned at him. “Are you unwell?”

  “I’m quite well, thank you.”

  “Indeed, I should hope so on your wedding day!”

  “William, do not play games with me.” Mick could hear the growl in his voice. “Did she not tell you about the lamb?”

  “Who? What lamb?”

  “Rosalind, of course. Did she not tell you about the lamb . . . about India . . . about that Christmas Eve when I was a boy and—”

  “Mick, what are you jabbering about, man? Rosalind said nothing to us this morning but ‘A happy Christmas Eve to you both’ and ‘I can hardly wait to be married to Mick.’ Now get back in there to her. Your guests will soon be going away, and you’ve stood about all morning as if someone had transfixed you.”