The Peace of Christmas Yet to Come: Sweet Regency Romance (A Dickens of a Christmas Book 3)

by L G Rollins

  “Very well,” Martha said, addressing Grandfather and praying Lord Comerford would take the change in conversation as an indication to leave. “I’ll just place the basket on your desk. Only promise me you’ll eat soon.” Preferably before it froze in the cold office.

  “Thank you, sweet girl,” Grandfather said. He bid Lord Comerford good evening, patted Martha once more on the arm, and then disappeared back down the dark hallway.

  Lord Comerford still did not leave, however. Martha felt his eyes on her as she moved to Grandfather’s desk and rested the basket on it. She’d originally planned to simply place the basket there and leave, but she didn’t want to walk out with Lord Comerford.

  To grant herself some time, she slowly began removing the food items one by one.

  Still, he did not make any move to go.

  “Have you business you wish to discuss?” Mr. Scrooge didn’t sound any less caustic when addressing a member of the peerage than he did when speaking to someone of the working class.

  “Certainly not.” Lord Comerford, for his part, also sounded the same no matter whom he spoke to—pompously superior. “I’ll have you know I am set to inherit—”

  “If you have no business here, then I bid you good afternoon.”

  Martha paused, momentarily shocked by the blatant dismissal. Good heavens, she’d never heard a peer treated with such forwardness. Particularly from a man in trade. It was both frightening and a little thrilling.

  “I only thought to wait—”

  “Good afternoon.” Mr. Scrooge was apparently not about to back down, no matter Lord Comerford’s standing.

  “Surely you do not—”

  “Good afternoon!”

  With a huff, Lord Comerford spun on his heel, threw the door open with a bang, and marched outside.

  Martha had never been so thankful for Mr. Scrooge’s unwavering, prickly contrariness. She didn’t say as much—she knew full well if she said anything to Mr. Scrooge, especially ‘thank you,’ it would only increase the chance that he’d throw her out as well, and Lord Comerford was most likely still nearby.

  Slowly, she finished pulling out the rest of the food. If she postponed her own departure by only a few more minutes, there was a very good chance she could see herself home without encountering him again. What a relief that would be.

  Finally, certain that Lord Comerford would not still be hanging about, Martha turned back toward Mr. Scrooge. His head was bent low over the large book, and he seemed to be reading it most carefully.

  She considered bidding him farewell but then decided not to. She knew him well enough to know that once he was entrenched in work, pulling him out would only irritate him. Martha let herself out and was pleased to see that Lord Comerford, indeed, was nowhere in sight.

  Martha hurried home, the exhaustion of the day quickly catching up to her. Between working early in the morning, coming home to two young boys who needed ever so much attention, and then being the one who made sure Grandfather ate . . . well, it was beginning to feel like far too much for her to carry alone. Add to all that the trouble with Lord Comerford? Martha reached her front door and pushed it open. Why had he begun to single her out? More to the point, how was she going to get him to stop?

  Martha took in the room. Everything was exactly where she had left it. The fire was low but still burning. Peter rested on the settee, book extremely close to his face; the room was quite dark. The few dishes she’d left out on the table were still there. Martha shut the door behind her. At least things hadn’t disintegrated into a raging boyhood argument while she was gone.

  Her brow dropped, and she looked over the room again.

  “Peter, where is Tim?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Fear crept up her legs.

  “Peter,” she said more forcefully. “Where is your brother?”

  He slowly lowered the book, eyes blinking. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

  “What?” Martha pulled the door open once more. The sun had set a few minutes before she’d arrived back home. It was quickly turning from dusk to dark. “He hasn’t been home at all? Are you certain?”

  Peter placed his book on the cushion beside him. “I’m sure. I would have heard if he’d come in.”

  Oh, gracious. Martha stared out into the night. Tim enjoyed time outside, but he’d never, not once, stayed out this late. He was young, but still plenty old enough to know better.

  Her heart squeezed painfully. Something must be wrong. He would have been home by now otherwise.

  “Stay here, Peter.” At least she was already dressed warmly, though she would have liked a thicker pelisse. The last few rays of sunlight had taken any warmth it provided. What had Tim been wearing that afternoon when he’d left for a walk? He’d remembered his hat, hadn’t he?

  Martha hurried back out into the night; one last glance at Peter showed that he understood the gravity of the situation. Hopefully, he would stay put as she’d instructed. She didn’t need both of her brothers lost on a cold winter’s night.

  Her footsteps took her toward Grandfather first thing. As she took the road back toward town, she searched all around, even while walking quickly. Blessedly, Mr. Scrooge was finally done for the day.

  Grandfather did his best to assure Martha that all would be well, but she could see the hint of panic in his own eyes. After a brief conversation, it was decided Grandfather would search to the north and Martha to the south.

  As quickly as she’d arrived, she was back out in the night searching once more.

  Which way would Tim have gone? There were ever so many roads and lanes and small paths. He probably would have walked by the church, even though he knew she wasn’t working. He liked Mr. Jakob, and she believed he often stopped to talk with him. But he wasn’t there. Neither was Mr. Jakob or Mrs. Gale, so she couldn’t even be sure he had come this way that afternoon.

  Who else had he mentioned speaking with on his walks before?

  Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Martha was beginning to shiver. If Grandfather had found him, she was certain he’d have found her next and let her know.

  How cold must Tim be by now? She dare not think too hard on it, or she was liable to break down crying.

  The truth was, there were simply too many places he might be. Too many for her and Grandfather to search out all on their own. Perhaps Bridget’s father, Mr. Grove, would help?

  Turning down the road to her left, Martha prayed the entire way to her friend’s door.

  Chapter Seven

  Martha knocked loudly on the Groves’ front door. Her nearly frozen hands throbbed from the act, but she didn’t care. She would knock all night if that’s what it took to get the help she needed.

  The door opened and the butler stood there, frowning down at her.

  “Pardon me, but I must see Bridget.” Surely he remembered who she was. Martha may not have visited much this past year, but she and Bridget had been thick as thieves at one point.

  “Miss Grove is currently occupied.”

  “I know it’s late, but I must see her. It is most urgent.”

  His mouth drew into a tight line, and his nostrils flared slightly. Nonetheless, he finally exhaled and stepped back, allowing her entrance. “Very well. I will inquire as to if she will see you.”

  There was no doubt in Martha’s mind that if Bridget knew she was in need, she would come to her aid. Regardless of the happenings these past few years, they were good friends and would always be.

  Just then, a door opened. From her many hours here, Martha knew it led to the drawing room. Several people poured out, all dressed quite finely. Martha didn’t recognize several of them. Apparently, the Groves were hosting a dinner party tonight. A small tinge of envy tugged at her. She’d always been so delighted whenever an invitation had come to her and her parents to dine with the Groves. They threw very elegant parties.

  “Miss Grove,” the butler said, hurrying forward.

  A beautifully d
ressed woman turned. Martha was a bit shocked to see it was Bridget. Why, her friend had blossomed into a handsome woman. One who, tonight at least, was wearing a dress with a far lower cut than she’d ever imagined Bridget would agree to wear. Her arm, too, was looped about the arm of a man dressed in the first state of fashion.

  “Pardon me, miss,” the butler said with a bow, “but there is a Miss Cratchit to see you. She is insisting it is urgent.”

  Bridget turned further, her gaze finally landing on Martha.

  She had expected her friend to be excited to see her, or at least a bit pleased. Instead, Bridget only raised a single eyebrow. She spoke softly to the man at her side and then the two of them drew nearer the front door.

  Martha knew her friend would not desert her in her need. Or so she tried to convince her rolling stomach.

  “I am so sorry to interrupt,” Martha said by way of hello. “But it’s my brother, Tim. He’s gone missing.”

  “Oh, dear,” Bridget tutted. “How dreadful.”

  Her father appeared at her side. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  He’d always been a bit of an overly forceful man. Martha was glad when Bridget explained for her.

  “Martha’s little brother, Tim, is missing. Oh, Richard,” Bridget turned toward the gentleman beside her, “it is such a sad story. The little boy was born with a crooked leg. He’s never been able to walk without a crutch.”

  Martha bristled slightly; Bridget knew full well that Tim hated when people talked like that about him. But she didn’t argue; she needed their help more than their respect at the moment.

  Mr. Grove huffed. “Well, he isn’t here. Now if you will excuse us, we are heading in to dinner.”

  “Sir, please,” Martha pressed. “I cannot search all of Dunwell on my own.”

  “Excuse my interference,” the gentleman beside Bridget said, “but if the boy is an invalid, then surely it would not be too much to send a couple of your footmen out looking for him.”

  Martha was both irritated and thankful for his statement. She never could tolerate people calling her brother an ‘invalid’ or speaking to him with condescending pity. Yet, a few footmen could mean the difference between finding Tim and not.

  “Very well.” Mr. Grove’s tone suddenly turned far more accommodating when speaking to the gentleman. He spoke quickly to the butler, instructing him to send out a few footmen to help, then turned to leave without a farewell or good luck for Martha.

  “If you will excuse us,” Bridget said, smiling at Martha though it seemed forced. “My intended and I were just heading in to dinner.”

  “You are engaged?” The question jumped from Martha before she could think.

  “Yes.” Bridget let out a twittering giggle. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  How could her dear friend get engaged and not tell her? Martha went through the motions of curtsying and greeting the gentleman as Bridget introduced them to one another. But her mind was reeling.

  Bridget was getting married.

  And she hadn’t even cared enough to let Martha know.

  Soon, Bridget and her husband-to-be turned and left. Martha was alone in the entryway.

  She’d not been blind to the fact that many families in the neighborhood no longer wished to associate with her and Grandfather because of their reduced circumstances. But for even Bridget Grove to turn her back . . .

  Martha drew herself up. It didn’t matter. Right now, she needed to focus on finding Tim. She blinked a few times, surprised to find her eyes hot and moist. She would mull over this change in Bridget later.

  Right now, Tim was the priority.

  It took far longer than she would have liked, but eventually, Martha left the Groves home with four footmen. They made a quick plan and then split up.

  Martha called Tim’s name over and over again as she picked her way past the church house yet again. Her throat had turned raw over an hour ago, but she ignored the growing pain.

  Holding the lantern Mr. Grove’s butler had supplied her with high above her head, Martha looked all about.

  Nothing.

  She wouldn’t give up, though. Not until Tim was found. Not if morning came first. Not even if it took all the next day.

  The road past the church house split. She most always took the one to the left, which carried her toward Dunwell. The one to the right led to only one place: Stonewell Castle.

  Martha paused at the split. Tim would have had no reason to go right. They had no connection with the Silent Duke.

  Or they hadn’t. She’d had conversations with him twice now—if the one-sided talking could be called a conversation. His Grace scared her far more than she cared to admit. But not like Lord Comerford. No, the feeling when she was with the Silent Duke was completely different. He intimidated her. After all, he had more power and wielded more influence than anyone she was ever likely to associate with. Yet, she didn’t feel unsafe around him.

  She simply felt small. Insignificant.

  Then again, he had allowed her to sit. So perhaps he wasn’t all bad?

  Martha hadn’t mentioned her interactions with the Silent Duke to anyone. She wouldn’t have dared. She felt certain he wanted to pretend they hadn’t met in the chapel as much as she did.

  So, what were the chances, then, that Tim had gone down this way? Martha rolled her lips inward, trying to warm them for a moment. She’d already searched the road leading back toward Dunwell twice.

  Her eyes swung back to the turn heading toward Stonewell Castle. She wouldn’t go so close as to bother the Silent Duke. But, if she walked down the road a bit, surely he would never know she’d trespassed. Besides, there was no other place to search. She’d looked everywhere.

  Even if he did find out and was furious—as she’d heard he’d become when other neighbors had tried visiting—she would face him down gladly if that’s what it took to find Tim.

  Taking one determined step after another, Martha headed down the road.

  “Tim!” she called. “Tim?”

  Still no response. There was next to no chance he was here. He wouldn’t have had cause to go this way. Most likely, one of the footmen had found him by now and he was home again. Oh, how she prayed he’d been found and was home again.

  A soft call caused Martha to pull to a stop.

  “Tim?”

  Another call. Clearly the sound of a young boy.

  She lifted the lantern, anxiously looking about her. There was a small path branching off to one side and a small cottage just down the way.

  Martha turned and hurried toward it. Probably a groom’s cottage or the like. “Tim?”

  She reached the cottage, but it was completely dark. No one, it seemed, was inside. Martha neared the front steps. A small, huddled form was pressed up against the side of the house.

  “Oh, Tim.” She hurried over to him.

  “I knew you’d come.” His words were slurred, but at least he’d spoken.

  “My sweet boy. I am so sorry. Come. Let’s get you home.”

  “I can’t walk. Twisted ankle.”

  “Then I’ll carry you.” He hadn’t grown too big as to make it impossible. Not yet. Martha pressed her hands through the snow and under him. The wall just behind Tim was warm. There must have been a hearth on the other side. Though no one appeared home now, someone likely planned to return soon and had left a low fire going.

  Martha closed her eyes momentarily and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever had helped keep her brother warm.

  Pulling Tim close, Martha stood and began the long trip back home. Tim was far too cold for her liking, but at least he was awake and speaking. Moreover, she’d found him, and she would be sure he got warm.

  If only she could be sure it wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Eight

  Martha paced between their small table and the front door. Doctor Lock continued to inspect Tim near the fireplace, the warmest location in any of their rented rooms. Martha reached the door, then turned
her back on the sight and marched back toward the table. Grandfather sat at the table, his head dropping with exhaustion. She reached him but didn’t disturb his light slumber. Instead, she spun about once again, pacing back toward the front door.

  The doctor had been seeing to Tim for over an hour now. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

  “Well?” she finally asked. “Is he going to be all right?”

  Behind her, Martha heard Grandfather cough, the chair beneath him groaning as he sat up more fully.

  Doctor Lock pushed off a knee and came to a stand. “It’s too early to tell. Best I can gather, he had a tumble. Sprained his good ankle. He said he crawled to the groom’s house, found the warmest place he could and hunkered down, waiting to be found.”

  Martha’s insides twisted; to think, the entire afternoon and evening he’d been out there, stuck in the cold. If she’d only known sooner, she’d have found him far earlier than midnight.

  “Keep him by the fire for at least a day and see to it that he sleeps and drinks plenty of warm broth. I’ll be back tomorrow night to check on him.”

  “Thank you sir,” Martha said, opening the door for him.

  Doctor Lock gave her a small smile. “I can’t say for sure now, but all signs point to him making a full recovery.” He tipped his hat her direction and then left.

  Martha closed the door behind him, sagging against it momentarily.

  “Grandfather,” she said, stifling a yawn, “You go to bed. I’m going to sleep out here with Tim tonight.”

  He must have been even more tired than he looked, for he didn’t argue, but trudged off toward the room he shared with Peter and Tim.

  Martha slipped up beside Tim, but he seemed to be sleeping. He wasn’t nearly as pale as when they had first made it back home. Martha had carried him halfway back to the house when she’d come across one of Mr. Grove’s footmen who then carried Tim the rest of the way.

  Moving into the room which she used as a bedchamber, she pulled the blankets off her bed and brought them back out to the main room. She laid them out beside Tim, sandwiching him between herself and the hearth.