3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England

by Michelle Griep

  “Please, have a seat.” I sweep my arm toward a chair, and while his back is turned, I slide into my own seat behind my desk, grateful to hide my wrapped hand in my lap. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure that you can be.” He sniffs. Hopefully he’s brought his own handkerchief should he need one. “But I thought to give you a try first.”

  I tilt my head, beyond curious. “Sounds like a challenge.”

  “It may be, considering the size of your factory.”

  “I am intrigued.” I truly am. What on earth does the size of Nottingham Lace and Hose have to do with an earl and his whims? I lean back in my chair. “What is your proposition?”

  Once again he sniffs. Indeed, he will be in need of a cloth sooner or later. Silently I pray that it is much later.

  “My lady wife finds your lace to be of supreme quality, and with her sister in residence, the two of them have conspired to regarb the whole of Warburton House.” He reaches into his pocket, produces a white square of cotton, and then sneezes into it.

  My shoulders sag with relief at God’s faithfulness.

  “Pardon.” He tucks the cloth away. “Now then, where was I? Ahh … yes. The refashioning. There are fifty-two windows at Warburton House, all suddenly in need of new lace panels, unique yet identical and without flaw. Are you up to the task, Mr. Archer?”

  I blink, stunned. An order of this magnitude will give me the edge over Birkin and Adams. I suck in a breath, hoping to keep my voice at an even keel. “Absolutely, my lord. I would count it an honour.”

  “Very good.” He rises. “Have your clerk write up the paperwork and deliver it to my steward; then send someone out for measurements.”

  I shoot to my feet and scramble to the door, holding it wide for him while keeping my injured hand concealed behind my back. “May I ask when exactly you expect the panels to be delivered?”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose I should have made that clear.” He claps his hat atop his head. “The curtains must be installed no later than the morning of Christmas Eve. Apparently we are to throw quite the gala on Christmas Day.” A shadow darkens his face. “Yet one more conspiracy of my wife and her sister. I can only hope that it will not bring more relatives to reside beneath my roof. Good day, Mr. Archer.”

  “Good day, my lord.”

  I close the door behind him then wander back to my desk. Christmas Eve is but ten weeks away. There is thread to order, a pattern to be decided upon, new templates to make … and that’s just the beginning. I sink into my seat and pull out pages of blank parchment. Dipping the pen into ink, I begin scratching out calculations. Is there enough money to spare to hire another worker or two? Are there enough funds to expedite a shipment of bearing grease? I don’t look up until a rap at my door breaks my concentration.

  Baggett pokes his head in. “Gramble to see you, sir.”

  “Gramble?” I frown. “Why is the man not working?”

  “It’s after six, sir. Quitting bell rang a quarter of an hour ago.”

  I glance out the window. Sure enough, twilight falls as heavy and thick as the stack of paper I’ve managed to pile onto my desk. No wonder a headache throbs behind my eyes. I should have lit a lamp long ago.

  “Very well. Send him in.” I rise and set a cheery flame aglow in the oil lamp on my desk.

  “Mr. Archer, sir.” Gramble enters, hat in hand, his small eyes appearing all the more like black beads until he steps into the circle of light radiating out from the lamp.

  “Gramble.” I drop back into my chair. “What brings you here?”

  “I been tryin’ to have audience with ye, sir, for the past month.” He fiddles with the hat in his hand, edging his fingers round and round the brim of it.

  “So I’ve noticed, yet you have a talent for seeking me out at the most inopportune times. What have you to say?”

  The man puffs out his chest, and his gaze floats upward, as if he’s about to recite a monologue from memory. “I been here nigh on five years now, Mr. Archer, long enough to see my wages increased.” His gaze drifts back to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Only all’s I seen is naught but a mere tuppence extra an hour.”

  So this is about money. I should’ve known. It always is. Yet judging by the reek of sloe gin and burley tobacco that radiates off him, he’d have significantly more pennies in his pocket if he’d quit drinking and smoking.

  I shake my head. “You know as well as the rest of the workers that I offer the fairest wages possible. Most count themselves lucky to be in my employ.”

  His hat circles faster in his hands. “Be that as it may, sir, I insist upon a raise.”

  “And so you shall have it. I will give you a raise—in your hours, which, in essence, will increase your earnings.” His hat stops moving. “How’s that?”

  “Starting tomorrow, the twelve-hour workday shall be increased to fourteen between now and Christmas. That will give you two extra hours’ worth of earnings.”

  “Fourteen hours!” The scar ruining his face deepens to purple. “That’s inhuman, that’s what.”

  “Take it or leave it.” I shrug. “There are plenty on the street who will gladly fill your space.”

  His lips twist into a sneer. “Ye’ll get yers one day. I’ll see to that.”

  I rise, skewering him with a murderous gaze, and lower my voice to a dangerous growl. “Is that a threat, Mr. Gramble?”

  He retreats a step and suddenly finds something very interesting on the floor to study. Cagey man. Only God knows if his repentant stance is genuine.

  “No, sir, Mr. Archer. Not a threat,” he mumbles. “Not from me.”

  “Then I bid you good night.”

  “Good night.” He jams his hat atop his head—brim now crushed on one side from where he’d white-knuckled it—and stalks out the door.

  I roll up my sleeves with a sigh then follow. It will be a long night.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Clerk Baggett turns to me where he’s just about to exit the front door. “Good night, sir.”

  I nod as I pass him on my way to the workroom floor. “It will be if I can get seven back up and running.”

  And if I can’t, fourteen-hour days or not, I’ll never make the deadline for Lord Hampton’s lace panels.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bella

  What have I done?

  The question bludgeons me as I stand in the middle of a disaster. The Old Lace Shop might have been a grand work space at some point in time, but now? I clench my skirt and pull it higher lest the rat droppings on the floor damage the hem. I ought to have visited here long before I decided to use my own funding and hire Mr. McGreary to renovate the place. But after a week of suffering refusals from nearly every businessman in Nottingham—combined with five solid days of icy rain and nipping winds—I felt I simply must get moving on the matter for the sake of the dear old women who even now are sitting out front, braving October’s assault.

  Mr. McGreary walks the perimeter of the big room, shaking his head. Courageous man. I am too horrified to move away from the door.

  Streaks of sunlight reach in through the cracks of the boarded windows. The creepy contrast of brilliance against shadow is unnerving, especially where it highlights the many spiderwebs. Ceiling timbers hang down like dead men suspended from a gallows. Great chunks of plaster have fallen and broken into powdery bits, and mould blackens what was once white. Many floorboards are missing, and the whole place smells of dampness and death.

  This is not at all what I expected.

  But when Mr. McGreary completes his circle and stops in front of me, I stand tall and force a pleasant tone to my voice. “Well, sir, what do you think?”

  “God’s honest truth?” His bushy brows climb high on his forehead. “I think it ought to be torn down, lass.”

  His verdict echoes what Edmund has told me, and my stomach sinks. Absently, I toy with the pearl at my throat. True, this place is a ruin, but how much more so is the indignity of
sitting out on the street, relying on the graces of passersby? No, for the sake of the ladies, I cannot—will not—accept Mr. McGreary’s dire opinion, and I look him straight in the eye. “Surely removing what is here and rebuilding will take longer, will it not?”

  “Aye.” He scratches his jaw, his fingers rasping against his grey whiskers. “But as it is, it canna be done in the month ye were hoping.”

  Drat! Putting off the completion only ensures the women will suffer frigid weather. I peer up at him, almost afraid to ask. “How long, then?”

  “Three, maybe four months.”

  Just then a gust of wind rattles the boards on the windows, strengthening my resolve. “Make it two, and I will pay you extra to have it finished by Christmas Day.”

  “Oh, I dunno, lass.” He glances over his shoulder at the decrepit sight.

  Please, God, make him say yes.

  Shaking his head, he swings his gaze back to me. “That be a hard order to fill, what with my workers already tied up in finishing the new Birkin warehouse.”

  I want to stamp my foot and scream at the unfairness of building accommodation for threads and lace when old women are left outside to freeze. My heart squeezes and … wait a minute. If I can appeal to this man’s heart, perhaps he will find a way to help me.

  “Tell me, Mr. McGreary, is your mother still alive?”

  “Aye, lass.” He nods warily. “By God’s great mercy and pure Scot’s blood.”

  “I am glad to hear it, and I have no doubt you are a dutiful son. But can you imagine if she had no one to care for her? If she had to live by her own means? Forgotten, hungry, perhaps even blind, such as the women you saw on your way in here.” I edge a step nearer to him and soften my tone. “Would you not do everything within your power to provide your mother with shelter from the cold and a means to support herself?”

  A slow smile lifts one side of his mouth, and a chuckle rumbles in his throat. “Yer a shrewd one, lass, I’ll give ye that. But I canna come up with extra workers out of thin air, not even for my auld mother.”

  He’s right. Work won’t get done without muscle. But as majority owner of a factory, do I not have labourers under my employ that I might lend? After all, this building is part of the lace factory. I don’t want to force Edmund or remove workers without his knowledge, for I am woefully aware of how much I have to learn about the business, but I am willing to risk an argument with him over the matter.

  “What if I provide two men from the factory to help? Will that be sufficient?”

  Once again Mr. McGreary’s gaze drifts around the room. “Hardly,” he mutters; then he folds his arms and widens his stance. “But I’ll do my best for ye—and my dear mother—to see about getting it done.”

  Victory at last. I can’t help but grin. “Thank you, Mr. McGreary. I have full confidence in your capabilities.”

  I exit, leaving him to figure out what to be done first, but as I cross the threshold, a bark of a cough assaults my ears. At the end of the row of ladies, Hester lifts a scrap of cloth to her mouth. I speed to her side and crouch. “Are you ill?”

  She clears her throat once, twice, and then lowers a yellowed handkerchief and lifts her face to me. “Just a bit of a tickle, that’s all, missus.”

  Liar. I’d heard that sort of hack the month before Mr. White died. I could be wrong, and I pray to God that I am as I rummage in my reticule. Bypassing the second-chance coin, I pull out a wrapped ginger drop. I press Hester’s fingers around my offering. “Here is a lozenge.”

  “Thank ye, missus, oh—I’ve something for you as well.” She reaches inside her coat and pulls out a small package. What in the world?

  I unfold a parcel that is no bigger than my palm. Inside there is a delicate piece of lace, and I hold it up to examine the intricate pattern in the sunlight. Tiny lords and ladies, the size of a child’s fingernail, are part of the lacy pattern. One plays a mandolin. Another a cello. One drinks tea and another sits at a pianoforte. There are embellishments and flowers, whorls and curlicues. I’ve never seen the likes of it, not even in the finest shops on St. James in London.

  “Oh, Hester,” I breathe. “This is absolutely stunning. Don’t tell me you made this?”

  A smile dawns on the old woman’s face, and suddenly she is a young maiden again, lovely and carefree. “I did.” She turns to the other women. “We were all capable of such beauty at one time, right, girls?”

  A chorus of agreement rises.

  I rise as well, speaking for all to hear. “And you shall use those talents again, ladies. I am pleased to announce that the Old Lace Shop will soon be put to rights, and Mr. Archer has agreed to hire you on.”

  “Law!” Hester slaps a hand to her chest. “But we can’t see!”

  “Ahh, but your fingers can. Remember that flaw you found on my sleeve? Your skills at detecting defects can be used on the most important orders for Nottingham Lace and Hose, which will put our quality far above the rest of the competition. Are you willing?”

  Some of the women put their heads together, whispering. Alice’s jaw drops. Hester’s voice shakes with wonder. “Why, I think I speak for us all when I say yes!”

  Dorie, Alice, Anne, and Martha all nod vigorously.

  Despite the cool breeze, warmth spreads in my chest. “Then it is settled. The Old Lace Shop shall open on Christmas Day with a dinner for all, beginning a new year of prosperity for this new business venture.”

  Hester’s mouth pinches for a moment, no doubt struggling with the offer of a free dinner, but how can she refuse a Christmas Day feast?

  She can’t. Her voice rises above the clip-clop of a passing horse and rider. “Glory be!”

  The other women join in with their own shouts of cheer.

  For the first time in years, the scold of my dead husband raging about how useless I am fades to naught but a whisper. I bow my head, thankful for this opportunity.

  Then, rewrapping Hester’s lace, I stoop and offer it back. “Thank you for showing me this.”

  “Weren’t showin’.” Hester shakes her head. “I were givin,’ missus.”

  “Oh! But this is too precious.”

  “I want ye to have it, Mrs. White. Ye’ve given us back our dignity, ye have.”

  “While I appreciate your kind words, your dignity has nothing whatsoever to do with me. You’ve had it all along, for you are made in the image of God.” The words spilling from my own lips surprise me, and even more astonishing is that I believe them. The short time I’ve been here, setting up my own household, learning the ways of my own manufacturing business, has been a balm to my battered soul, restoring me in ways I did not realize needed mending. Has God wrought such a miracle in the little over a month that I’ve been here?

  “God bless ye, missus,” Hester rasps. Not a cough, but not clear breathing either.

  “You as well.” I squeeze her hand then straighten and head toward the big gates of the factory. The sooner I speak with Edmund and acquire two labourers to help Mr. McGreary, the sooner Hester and the women will be out of the elements.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bella

  Just past the factory’s iron gates, on the wall near the main entrance, a daring tendril of ivy clings to the blackened stone. Red leaves blaze against the cold backdrop. It is a barren place for this plant to have settled its roots, yet here it thrives, amidst workers too busy and indifferent to notice its beauty. I bend and pick a single, vivid leaf, yearning to possess the same sort of resilience.

  Inside the main door, Mr. Baggett clips along the corridor. Perfect timing. I smile at the clerk. “Good day, Mr. Baggett. Can you direct me to Mr. Archer?”

  He tilts his head down the passageway toward the workroom. “Number seven’s acting up again, Mrs. White. He’s hard at it, along with Mr. Franklin.”

  The news sinks like a stone in my belly. Edmund will be in no mood to discuss lending me some workers. The temperamental machine uncages the beast in him. I twirl the leaf between my forefinger an
d thumb. Resilience indeed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Baggett.” I give him a sharp nod then head toward the workroom. Bracing myself for the ear-shattering clank-bangity of the monstrous looms, I shove aside the big door and enter a workroom as frenzied as a beehive that’s been hit with a large stick. Men, women, children, all buzz about, focused on their labours. Two women spare me barely a glance as I sidestep them and head down the outer aisle.

  Ahead, Edmund stands wiping grease off his hands with a rag. Even after all these years and heartaches, the pull of him quickens my steps. The big machine next to him is alive. Gear shafts spinning. Wheels turning. Thread twisting into intricate patterns. I catch Edmund’s gaze, and a smile breaks wide and pleasant on his face. Relief fills me. Maybe asking him to part with two workers won’t be a problem in light of his obvious triumph over the cantankerous machine.

  Without a word—for really, there is no point in trying to converse amidst this clamour—he sweeps out his hand and directs me back the way I came. Once we are both outside the workroom, he shuts the heavy door, and I turn to him. “Congratulations on vanquishing the dragon.”

  “For today, at any rate.” Though the corridor is shadowy, his blue eyes gleam, the twinkle stealing my breath. “I’ve not seen much of you this past week. I was beginning to wonder if you’d been done in by the ledgers.”

  “No.” I smile. “I believe I’ve managed to conquer that beast as thoroughly as you have number seven.”

  “Perhaps it is time, then, that you move on to learn about the workings of the machinery, or at the very least, what machinery we have.”

  My hands clench. The enormous contraptions on the working floor intimidate me in ways that steal my breath—but I cannot show weakness to my business partner. “You may be right,” I concede, “but for now, I am finalizing plans to renovate the Old Lace Shop.”

  “Ahh, yes. I’d forgotten your latest project.” One of his brows rises slightly, an endearing and exceedingly handsome quirk. “So you’ve raised enough money? I am ashamed to confess I didn’t think you’d be able to do it. Well done. Well done, indeed.”