3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England

by Michelle Griep

  He’s right. Hatred does nip its fangs into my heart, not for Edmund, but for a father who should’ve protected instead of exploited his only daughter. Tears well and the world turns watery, but I fight to hold the tears back as I peer up at Edmund. “As much as I have wanted to, I have never hated you. Not once.”

  His brow folds, and emotions too many to name flash in his eyes. The hum of the factory yard fills in his silence until finally he speaks. “Your words tempt me to hope.”

  I shake my head. Perhaps he truly had loved me once, but surely that faded when he took to wife another woman.

  “You married,” I accuse.

  “I did, yet it turns out I was duped every bit as much as you.” A shadow darkens his face. “Catherine was not the person she led me to believe before we wed and was nearly the downfall of me and my business. It is a mercy in more ways than one that she did not suffer long before succumbing to a fever. As cruel as it is to speak such words, I daresay Flora and I are better off without her.” He turns on his heel, abruptly ending the conversation. “There is an issue with a boiler I must attend,” he clips out.

  Stunned by his candid revelation about his wife, I stand mute, watching the back of his coat. How different might life have been had we bucked conformity and married all those years ago.

  The next gust of wind shivers through me, shaking me from what-ifs and could-have-beens and reminding me of my mission for the blind women. I scurry to catch up with Edmund and stop him with a touch to his shoulder just before he opens the door to the factory. “One more moment, please. There is a matter, not of personal nature, that I wish to address, something that will increase quality for a minimal amount of output.”

  Slowly, he turns back. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a businesswoman.”

  I smile. He can have no idea the yearning those words feed. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  He humphs. “So what is this matter?”

  “The blind women who beg outside the Old Lace Shop, I think we can use them. Actually, they could benefit all the lacemakers hereabouts.”

  His mouth twitches, not quite a smirk, but enough to reveal his skepticism. “You’ve said it yourself. The women are blind. How can they possibly be of use?”

  “Their sight is gone, but their skills are not. Look at this.” I hold up my lacy sleeve hem for him to examine.

  Scowling, he glances at the offering. “I don’t understand.”

  “There is a flaw, one I’d not detected, but Hester’s nimble fingers did.”

  He bends closer, his blue eyes travelling the fine lines of the piece until finally he breathes out a small ahh. “What has this to do with anything?”

  I lower my arm. “I propose we hire those women for quality control, obviously for only the most important orders, and set them up in a room of their own.”

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  “But you’ve not heard me out.”

  His jaw firms, and he scowls. “I believe I made myself more than clear when we discussed the receiving room several weeks back. The buildings have not grown since then. I cannot spare one more square foot for another of your improvement ideas.”

  “What about the old warehouse over there?” I point across the yard at the only building where no workers buzz about.

  Edmund sighs. “It’s not a warehouse. Those are former sorting rooms that have been unused for years. It wouldn’t be a safe place to bring you, let alone elderly women with no sight.”

  “Couldn’t you—”

  “No. It’s too decrepit, and there is no extra money to refashion the space. I’m debating if I can even use it for storage without endangering somebody’s life.”

  I blow out a long breath. Being the majority owner, I could simply order him to acquiesce, but given the fact that he knows these buildings and grounds more intimately than me, I feel I must bow to his wisdom.

  But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up so easily.

  I look him square in the eyes. “There must be some small space in which to house five old women. They could offer their services to any and all, and in the process, generate income to provide for their needs.”

  “I grant you it is an innovative idea, but …” He grabs the back of his neck and kneads a muscle. I know I’m adding to his tension, but it’s worth it if it brings the old women out of the cold.

  Finally, he lowers his hand and shakes his head. “As much as I want to help you, I cannot. We will have no customers at all if we do not produce the lace in the first place, and lace is not produced by reducing available work space.”

  His words sink like a rock to my stomach—until a new idea springs up.

  Edmund grunts. “I know that look. What are you thinking?”

  “The Old Lace Shop, the building.” I snap my fingers. “There is plenty of space in there, and it’s not in use.”

  “Because it needs to be pulled down!” A bitter chuckle rumbles out of him. “No, absolutely not. I’ll not spare one penny of company money to tear down that pile of bricks and rebuild.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll raise the money myself.”

  Both our brows lift at my bold words.

  “And how do you propose to do that?” he asks.

  Exactly. What do I know of soliciting for funds? The next gust of breeze snatches my bonnet ribbons and slaps me in the cheek with them. But the bitter truth is that I’ve got to do something or those women will be sitting out in the cold. Hester already has a cough. She won’t survive a frigid winter. I could easily withdraw money from my husband’s estate … but no. I will not rely on Mr. White—dead or not—for even one penny. This is something I must do on my own, as much for the women as for myself. Leastwise, I have to try it as a first resort, not a last.

  “If I manage to acquire the money and take care of the renovations on my own”—my gaze rises to Edmund’s—“will you hire those women for your premium orders?”

  A sigh deflates his chest. “If those women are truly as valuable as you say they are, then yes.”

  “Well then, I’d best get busy.”

  But busy doing what? I turn lest he see the creasing of my brow. Where does one begin to solicit funding? I know nothing of this undertaking, but I do know this … I am more than determined not to use a penny of Mr. White’s money for the venture.

  This is something I have to do on my own.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bella

  The next day, I stand in a receiving room at Adams’ Lace Factory on Stoney Street, facing a pug-nosed bulldog of a clerk who sits behind his desk like a hound guarding a bone. He even smells of damp fur.

  “Good day.” His upper lip curls as he speaks. “How may I help you?”

  Though the man admittedly is a pile of muscle on a stool, there is no reason I should be cowed by him. But I am. Years of intimidation are hard to forget—yet this is the course I have plotted and I will see it through, on my own terms, and not be ruled by my past. Ever so determined, I clutch my reticule in a ridiculous grasp for courage. “I should like to meet with Mr. Adams, please.”

  He taps one finger on the desk, keeping time with his words. “Your name and purpose, madam?”

  “I am Mrs. White.” I toss back my shoulders hoping to impress, for surely the name will mean nothing to the clerk or to his master. “I am come on a matter of charitable opportunity.”

  The clerk shakes his head, his long jowls swaying with the movement. “Mr. Adams already gives to the church and hasn’t the time or resources to entertain anything more.”

  He reaches for a pen and dips it into an inkwell, dismissing me with the scratching of his nib against the parchment. There are other assorted documents littering the desktop, one of them with sketches of cogs and gears … and my interest is piqued when I see Nottingham Lace written in the corner. I narrow my eyes. The small text says something about the possibility of being ten times the power of—

  The clerk snatches the paper and shoves it in a drawer. “I
f you do not leave this instant, I shall be forced to contact a constable.” He plants both of his meaty hands on the desk and rises. “And so I bid you good day, madam!”

  I flinch, and the scar behind my ear throbs. This is not going well. Not at all. Perhaps I ought to try here again another day, preferably one when this disagreeable man is absent. With a last glance at the closed door leading to Mr. Adams’s office, I turn and flee, disappointed but not hopeless. I’ve learned from this experience. Charity does not gain an audience with a businessman.

  The next factory is just down the street, and for a moment, I gawk up at the formidable redbrick structure. It outshines any building I’ve visited in this part of Nottingham. Inside, the noise is still unbearable and thread dust hangs heavy in the air, but it is a spacious affair. Wide corridors, a receiving room with plush seats—it even sports a settee in front of a coal fire. The clerk here wears a jolly aquamarine cravat and a smile.

  He tips his head courteously. “Good morning, madam. How may I be of service to you?”

  “Good morning.” I step up to his desk, grateful for his greeting. Little creases spread out from his eyes as if he laughs a great deal. At once I am at ease, and the sting is removed from my earlier encounter with Mr. Adams’s dreadful clerk. “I request an audience with Mr. Birkin, please.”

  “Name and purpose?”

  “I am Mrs. White.” I flounder. Charity doesn’t work, but what will? On instinct, I reach for my mother’s pearl necklace—and am instantly fortified with a new idea. “I have come on a matter of dignity.”

  “Dignity?” His brows shoot to his receding hairline. “That’s a new one.”

  Pushing back his chair, he rises and crosses over to the frosted glass door separating the master from the masses. After two taps, the clerk pushes the door open wide enough to poke in his head. “There’s a Mrs. White to see you, sir. Says it’s a matter of dignity.”

  A low voice rumbles inside, too indistinguishable for me to make out any words.

  “Very good, sir.”

  I press my lips tight. Did that mean very good, the man would see me, or it would be very good to have me dismissed?

  The clerk swings the door wide and nods for me to enter. Apparently, dignity is an easier sell than charity.

  Mr. Birkin’s office smells of cheroots and lemon balm, an interesting combination. The man himself rises from his seat behind his desk and waits until I sit before he lowers to his chair. He is an older fellow. Craggy lines carve into the puffy skin beneath his eyes. His silver-streaked hair is slicked back with pomade—which may account for the citrusy smell in the air—and his muttonchops splay out wild and bushy near his collar. While fashionably dressed, he seems the sort that wouldn’t mind cozying up to a fire and swapping a tale or two over a cup of tea.

  I can’t help but smile into his warm brown eyes. “Good day, Mr. Birkin. I am Mrs. White.”

  “Pleased to meet you, madam.” His voice is distinctive, somewhat raspy, like the scrape of an old desk drawer that’s hard to open. “How may I be of service?”

  “I realize you are a busy man, sir, so I will get straight to the point. I am sure you have noticed the plight of the blind women of Nottingham. I feel that helping them is a civic duty and a matter of honour. Granted, helping them all would be an overwhelming and expensive task, but doing nothing is unacceptable. That being said, it is my mission to solicit leading businessmen such as yourself to contribute toward providing a place for five of these women where they might labour to support themselves before winter sets in.”

  He leans back in his chair, a twinkle in his gaze. “I beg your pardon, madam, but what exactly have these blind women to do with my dignity?”

  Hmm. Have I not made myself abundantly clear?

  I smooth out a wrinkle in my skirt while searching for the right words. “Being that you are a factory owner yourself, I thought, perhaps, that you might extend some assistance toward those poor souls who were ruined by the business, restoring their dignity.”

  “I see.” He sniffs and angles forward in his chair, his brown eyes staring directly into mine. “In your own words, madam, I am a factory owner. I do not run a charity but a business, which I should be tending to now, and so I bid you good day.”

  Oh, dear. This isn’t going at all like planned. I scoot forward in my seat, desperate to make him understand. “This has nothing to do with charity. These women can provide a valuable skill. Their eyes no longer work, but their fingers do, and they are able to find the tiniest of flaws in a piece of lace. I propose you donate money to the renovation of the Old Lace Shop. It’s a perfect space for them to take in your finest pieces. With a guarantee of perfection, you can sell that lace for a higher profit.”

  “Hmm.” He reaches for a wooden box on his desk and pulls out a cheroot then rolls the thing between his thumb and forefinger. Is this a stalling tactic? A nervous tic? Or is he truly considering my proposition?

  “Tell me, Mrs. White, what of the money I give up front for the renovations? How does that get paid back?”

  I blink. Does the fellow have no understanding whatsoever of an endowment? “It doesn’t, sir. Such is the nature of a donation.”

  Lifting the tobacco to his nose, he sniffs along the length of it then levels his gaze at me. “I am sorry, madam. Once again I must repeat, I do not run a charity. Good day.”

  My lips part, and though I must look like a landed halibut gasping for air, it cannot be helped. How can such harsh sentiment come from such a mild-looking man?

  “Excuse me, Mr. Birkin,” I try again. “If you would just—”

  “I said good day, madam. Bates!”

  I jump, surprised at the deep bellow from the grandfatherly fellow. How could I have been so wrong about him?

  The clerk pops his head inside the door. “Yes, sir?”

  Before Mr. Birkin can respond, I rise. Righteous anger kindles hot in my chest. Will this man of means spare not even one coin? What else can possibly persuade him? Must I throw myself at his feet or—that’s it.

  “Mr. Birkin,” I clip out. “What if you were to be recompensed not by money but by service?”

  He lowers his cheroot, interest flickering in his eyes. “How so?”

  “I am good with numbers and organization. Perhaps you need a hand with your ledgers? Or I could take a look at your warehouse and suggest ways in which you might better utilize the space. Why, just recently I was able to institute a new receiving room over at Nottingham Lace and Hose, providing a comfortable waiting area to improve customer satisfaction.”

  “At Archer’s place?” His eyes narrow. “What exactly, madam, makes you qualified to offer such services? What could you possibly know of lace manufacturing and the intricacies of business?”

  “As the majority partner at Nottingham Lace and Hose, I have learned—”

  “You’re a spy!” he bellows. “Of all the bold-faced moves!” Red flares in splotches up his neck as he turns to the clerk. “Haul this snippet of a skirt out of here and see that the gate is locked behind her.”

  His terrible gaze swings back to me. Gone is the mild-mannered elder, replaced by a fiery-eyed titan. “And you tell that no-account Archer this act of war will be well met.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Edmund

  Blast!”

  The ratchety clanking and incessant bang-grinding of the machinery mutes my expletive but not the throbbing in my fingers. I pull back my hand and inspect the knuckles split wide and bleeding, devoured by the bite of the gear teeth on machine number seven. Ever since the pipe stem incident, this beast has acted up something fierce.

  “Pardon, sir!” Behind me, Clerk Baggett’s voice strains to be heard above the din. “Someone here to see you.”

  I yank out my handkerchief and growl a response as I wrap my hand. “I can’t be bothered now.”

  “It’s Lord Hampton, sir.”

  Surely I’ve not heard right. No earl would deign to visit such an industrial part of tow
n. Stooping, I back out of the guts of the machine, and a hank of hair flops down into my eye. With the back of my uninjured hand, I swipe it away along with the sweat on my brow.

  Then I turn and face Baggett. “The Lord Hampton?”

  “One and the same, sir.” Baggett’s head bobs as if a bolt has loosened. “I took the liberty of seating him in your office.”

  Interesting. Machine seven will have to wait, for a peer must never be kept caged in an empty office for long—or anywhere else, for that matter.

  “Very good, Baggett.” I wheel about.

  “Hold up!” The clerk’s shout pulls me back.

  Baggett holds out a handkerchief of his own. “Your brow, sir.”

  “Thanks.” I swipe the cloth over my forehead, and it comes away stained with grease. Mrs. Harnuckle is sure to glower at not one but two ruined handkerchiefs to launder. I tuck the offense into my pocket as I stride down the narrow aisle on the workroom floor.

  My suit coat hangs on a peg in the corridor. Thank God I’d thought to remove the thing before I set to work this morning. I brush lint off the shoulders, and as I trot up the stairs to my office, I roll down my shirtsleeves and shove my arms into the coat. A frown weights my brow as I reach for the knob. Blood taints the cloth covering my knuckles. Not a good impression for a businessman. I open the door, hiding my injured hand behind my back and offering the other, which is thankfully my right. “Lord Hampton, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  The man turns, wafting the scent of bergamot shaving lotion and lots and lots of money. He is my height. The same build and hair colour. But we are nothing alike. This is a man of power, centuries of breeding, and more wealth than I will ever see.

  “Not to worry, Mr. Archer.” He grasps my hand and gives it a firm shake. “The longer I’m about town, the less time spent in the company of my dear wife’s sister, who’s come to stay with us for a time. Too long of a time, if you ask me.”

  I offer the man a small smile that tastes bittersweet. While I never experienced in-laws who chafed, many were the times I spent working long hours to avoid going home to a wife who complained and belittled like none other.