P.S. Though I can do nothing to rectify the loss of Lord Hampton’s order or all the stock that was destroyed, please send this lace-work to your uncle Dickens with my wishes for him and his wife to enjoy a very merry Christmas.
A knock on the door ends my correspondence. Betty peeks her head inside. “The solicitor has arrived, mum.”
“Thank you.” I push back my chair and rise. “Are you ready to travel?”
“Yes, and the cab is waiting out front.”
“I shall meet you out there, then.”
Quickly, I collect Edmund’s letter and the lace, tucking both inside a large envelope with the banknote and ownership document. It weighs heavy in my hand and heavier on my spirit. Of all the things I’d imagined when coming here, I never thought it would end this way.
But there is no time to hold hands with regret now. I snatch up one more envelope then hurry downstairs to the sitting room.
A man in a somber suit coat turns at my entrance. Of course Mr. Smyth would be wearing black. Most solicitors do. Still, the colour grates against my senses.
He dips his head. “Good morning, Mrs. White.”
“Good morning to you, sir. Thank you for coming.” I force what I hope is a small smile, though more likely than not, it is a grimace. All my smiles lie in an ashen heap over on Stoney Street.
I cross the carpet and stop in front of him. Standing this close, I am but a mouse compared to his height. I try not to fidget with the envelopes as I peer up at him. “I appreciate you managing the last of my business here in Nottingham on such short notice.”
“Your wishes shall be carried out as if you were here, madam.”
“Very well.” I hand him the smaller of the envelopes. “Deliver this to Mr. McGreary. Also, be sure to see that the Christmas goose is cooked and brought ‘round to the Old Lace Shop by three o’clock sharp on Christmas Day.”
He tucks the missive into a pocket inside his coat. “I’ve already checked with the butcher and the baker. All is in order for a hearty feast, and I shall escort the ladies into the building myself.”
At the mention of the ladies, I turn away, biting my lip lest I whimper. I will not be here to witness their merrymaking. I will not share a meal with them on this sacred holiday. My own foolish promise made at the altar of a chest of widow’s weeds on a sunny September day comes back to haunt me.
This year I will celebrate Christmas with holly and laughter and a large stuffed goose.
Except I won’t be. I will sit alone in an empty London town house, dining with none but ghosts of the past under the glower of my dead husband’s memory.
“Mrs. White?”
Inhaling for courage, I turn back and offer over Edmund’s letter. “This is for Mr. Archer. It is imperative you put the envelope into his hand, none other. Do you understand?”
The solicitor gives me a sharp nod. “I shall have it to him tomorrow.”
“As for the rest of this”—I flutter my fingers around the room—“I trust you’ll see to the packing of my belongings and have them delivered to number twelve Portman Square, London.”
“Even now my men are standing by, ready to work.” With a tip of his head, he indicates a huddle of three men just outside the front window. “Safe travels to you, Mrs. White.”
I bid him goodbye and clip out to the foyer, anxious to be on my way. As I don my hat and coat, the white-faced woman looking back at me from the mirror gives me a shiver. Gone is the wide-eyed hope and expectation that accompanied me to this house. I leave here with shame. It is an ugly truth, one that will not be stabbed away even with the forceful jab of my hatpin.
Each step to the cab feels like I’m treading through treacle. Betty scoots over as I settle next to her on the carriage seat. The jarvey urges the horses to walk on, and I stare out the window to avoid conversation with my maid. Only when the cab turns onto Stoney Street do I realize my mistake.
We roll past the Old Lace Shop, and my heart constricts. Five black lumps sit next to a cleaned brick building with new glass-plate windows. I memorize the lines on the faces of each dear woman, and as I linger on Hester’s unseeing gaze, my own chin rises a bit. What an inspiration she is, meeting every hardship with a fierce faith in an unfailing God.
But half a block after resolving to be more like Hester, we pass by the rubble of the factory, and my resolve crumbles. Charred timbers poke up like blackened skeletons rising from a grave. Portions of brick walls stand scorched and jagged. The once thriving hub of business lies dead and silent. A funny sort of gurgle strangles me.
Betty reaches for my hand yet says nothing. Just as well.
There is nothing to say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Edmund
What should’ve been a victorious moment is as dark and sooty as the train station loading dock. I barely register the acrid stink of creosote as I stare up at the large wooden crates strapped to the flat car. NOTTINGHAM LACE AND HOSE is stenciled on their sides, and I glower at the black letters. It was a waste of time that the new machine had been broken down and boxed up. A waste of sweat and grunts from the men who loaded them. Yet the biggest waste of all are the minutes I stand here lamenting all the what-might-have-beens and should-have-nots.
But I have nothing else to do.
My glower deepens as I pull out my pocket watch and glance at the hour. It’s merely a formality, yet a habit I can’t seem to break. What does it matter if it’s nine in the morning or nine at night? I have no workers to manage or machines to wrangle. No factory to consume me. For the past two days I’ve drifted about like an unmoored ghost with nowhere to land. The only thing I’ve accomplished is fixing the clasp on Bella’s necklace, waiting even now in my pocket to be returned to her. But how will I face her? If the fire has ruined me so thoroughly, how much more her?
“Mr. Edmund Archer?”
Shoving away my watch, I turn and face a man in a black long coat. He is tall. Quite so. At least a handspan more than me. His deep-set eyes are so dark they appear empty, endless, cold. Add a cowl over the fellow’s head and he’d make a very fine grim reaper.
“I am he. Why do you ask?”
“I am Mr. Smyth, solicitor for Mrs. White. She asked me to deliver these papers to you. Since they are of a timely nature and you were not at home, I took the liberty of asking your butler for your whereabouts, which brings me here.” He holds out a large envelope sealed with twine.
Strange, that. I stare at his offering. Why would Bella hire a man for such a menial task when she could’ve done it herself? Unless—oh, God, no. Has she succumbed to some sort of illness after the trauma of the fire? I should have checked on her, or at the very least, sent an inquiry ‘round to her residence.
I jerk my gaze up to the man’s face. “Is Mrs. White ill?”
Mr. Smyth shakes his head. “No, leastwise not that I know of. When she departed yesterday, she appeared to be in the best of health. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I am to see that you are familiar with the contents before I leave you.”
Absently, I pull the envelope from the man’s fingers. Departed? Where would she go? I unwrap the twine and pull out a piece of folded lace—exquisite lace. The sort that would sell at a premium. What the deuce?
I glance up at Mr. Smyth. “What am I to do with this?”
“Keep at it.” He nods toward the envelope.
Once again, I reach in. This time I pull out a banknote, and when I read the amount, I suck in a sharp breath. Lace and money? It makes no sense. How did Bella come by such riches?
I’m about to ask Mr. Smyth when he urges me to continue.
There are two more sheets of paper inside. My knees nearly buckle when I read the heading of the first. Sole proprietorship with Bella’s neat signature gracing the bottom. I am the owner in full of Nottingham Lace and Hose. My dream come true—but two days too late. In reality, I am the owner of a heap of ashes … yet with such a sum written on the banknote, the first spark of a new hope begins to kindle. Coul
d I rebuild? Dare I?
My mind whirs with questions and calculations. What to do first. Where, when, and how. The workers will be ecstatic. Gramble, especially. But is there any possible way I can make things right with Lord Hampton? Not in time for Christmas, but maybe next—
“Not that I mean to prod, Mr. Archer, but I have another engagement.” Mr. Smyth taps the envelope. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
Reining in my wild thoughts, I empty the envelope and unfold a paper smelling of rose water. Bella’s handwriting covers one side. As I read, the embers of the hope I entertained so briefly die a quick death. She’s gone. Well and truly. Left me behind along with every penny she must’ve inherited from Mr. White. I close my eyes, fighting back a sob.
Oh, Bella.
How will Flora live without her? How will I? Bella brought such life and light into our dark little world. Giving to others. Rearranging my business and my priorities. Determined and compassionate and endlessly serving. Flora is a different girl for having shared time with her. I am a different man.
My shoulders slump as I slowly realize the biggest difference of all … how changed Bella’s life will be in London without her inheritance.
No. I will not have it.
I shove the papers and lace back into the envelope and snap my gaze up to Mr. Smyth’s. “What is Mrs. White’s forwarding address?”
He frowns. “I should think that if she’d wished to divulge such information, she’d have said as much in her letter.”
“Yet you know where she is, do you not?”
“Naturally.”
“Please.” On impulse, I grip his arm. “I give you my word of honour, sir, that I mean her every possible best intention.”
Mr. Smyth’s gaze shoots from my grasp to my eyes. It’s an unnerving stare, one that lasts an eternity, until finally he sighs and pulls from my grasp. “Well, I suppose it is a matter of public record. Number twelve Portman Square. Wait! Where are you—”
His voice fades as I dash down the stairs of the dock and tear around to the front of the train station. I should’ve guessed she’d have gone to the home she shared with Mr. White. She’s likely already acquainted with the new owners and has some sort of rapport with them. Perhaps they’ve hired her on as a maid or at least given her shelter until she can find employment.
I buy a ticket for the next available departure to London, which—God be praised—is in little more than a quarter of an hour. For the next three hours as I rumble across the country to King’s Cross Station, I memorize every last word of Bella’s sweet letter. How broken she must feel. How scared and vulnerable. If it takes the rest of my life, I vow I will erase every tear and fear she’s suffered.
Portman Square, while not the most elite neighborhood, is nonetheless fabulously upstanding. I garner a cross look or two as I make my way to number twelve. No wonder. I left the cottage without shaving this morning in my haste to turn away the new machine before it was unloaded. Fresh wrinkles crease my coat from the train trip as well.
But none of that matters as I trot down the steps to the servants’ entrance and pound on the door.
Moments later, a mobcapped woman wearing a flour-dusted apron and a glower answers, ushering me in with a wave of her hand. “Come in! Come in. And about time too. I expected you a half an hour ago.”
I slip past her, catching a waft of yeast and sugared sorghum, and enter a rather wide and long passageway that ends at a staircase. A door on one side opens to a kitchen, and farther down there are several other rooms.
The woman—who I assume is the cook—shuts the door, and when she turns to me, her hawkeyed stare swoops to my hands. “But what’s this? Where’s my crate o’ apples?” Her eyes narrow, and scarlet patches of anger bloom on her cheeks. “Flit! Don’t tell me you be bringing me an invoice before the goods. This be the last time I order from Nagle’s, and you can say as much to yer snipin’ owner. How am I to make dumplings in time for—”
I shoot up my hand, warding her off. It’s either that or turn tail and run. “Sorry to interrupt, madam, but I am not a delivery man, nor do I know anything about apples or Nagle’s. I am come to call for a Mrs. Arabella White. Is she here?”
“The missus?” She cocks her head and studies me once again, this time taking note of more than just what I carry as her gaze sweeps from my beaver hat to my leather shoes. She hitches her thumb over her shoulder, toward the door. “You know that be the service entrance?”
At a loss, I rub the back of my neck. Is the woman daft? “I do, yet you have not answered my question. May I speak with Mrs. White?”
“Wait here,” she grumbles, along with a whole host of complaints she mumbles while hiking up the stairs.
I take to pacing a route in front of those stairs. What I am about to do will change Bella’s life. My life. Flora’s. Am I ready for this? Are any of us?
But as Bella’s light step taps down the stone stairway and I once again behold her sweet face, any doubts I might’ve harboured sail far and away. She is a vision in her yellow gown with her brown hair coiled in ringlets atop her head.
“Edmund?” She stops in front of me, endearing little creases marring her brow. “What are you doing here?”
The cook lumbers down the stairs next, and I wait for her to pass and disappear into the kitchen. “I came to talk to you.”
“But what are you doing here?” Bella flourishes her fingers in the air. “Why come to the back door?”
Again with the back door? Suspicion sparks in my brain and is fanned to fiery life by the spark of confusion in Bella’s eyes.
She cocks her head. “Are you under the impression I am in service to this house?”
“I—I … Did you not come to London for employment?”
“No. This is mine.” She flings out her arms. “Mr. White left everything to me, for there was no one else. This is my home.” A shadow of melancholy darkens her voice.
Knocked off balance, I retreat a step, and my back hits the wall. “Do you mean to say you are not destitute?”
A bitter laugh nearly chokes her. “I grant my funds are considerably lower since, well …” Her head dips. “You were right. As was Mr. Barlow. I should have signed the factory over to you in the first place.”
The sorrow in her voice stabs me in the heart, and I fish around in my pocket to retrieve a coin. A farthing is a poor replacement for the second-chance coin she’d given me. Hopefully it will suffice. But then my fingers brush against the coolness of a silver chain, and instead I pull out Bella’s necklace and hold it aloft.
Staring at the pearl, she reaches for it, her chin trembling. “What? Where?” she sputters as she grasps the keepsake. “How did you find this?”
“Gramble found it. I regret to tell you the second-chance coin was lost in the fire, but I am hoping this will do in its place. Because, more than anything, I want us to have a second chance to be partners … life partners.”
Her lips part, and she blinks. I don’t blame her. I can hardly believe I will dare to marry again. But will she consider such a commitment, especially after a ruined marriage to an ogre thrice her age?
“Bella—” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat, hoping, praying, desperate. “I know things were not easy between you and Mr. White, but I am not a bully who will bend you to my will. I am a man who is wholly and helplessly in love.” I sink to one knee, holding on to her hand like a lifeline. “Will you marry me?”
Emotions flash across her face. Shock. Disbelief. And for a heart-stopping moment, her gaze darts about as if she looks for an escape route.
My gut clenches, and defeat nearly smothers me. I was wrong. Bella not only doesn’t need me, she does not want me. What an idiot. I clench the envelope I’ve carried all this way so tightly that it shakes. That’s what the payoff was about. A way for her to say goodbye and be done with me forever. No wonder she didn’t deliver the message in person.
I rise and turn so quickly, she gasps. And why not? She likely has no wo
rds to say to such an unexpected and unwelcome proposal.
“Wait!” Her footsteps catch up to mine at the door. “Where are you going? You have not yet heard my answer.”
A bitter laugh rumbles in my chest. “I have all the answer I need. Goodbye, Mrs. White.”
Before I can open the door, her hands slide around from behind and embrace me, pressing her body close to mine. The warmth of her cheek burns hot against my shoulder blade. “Yes,” she breathes.
I stiffen, hardly able to believe my ears.
Slowly, I turn.
Bella lifts her face to mine. Tears shimmer bright in her eyes. So does a love so pure, it aches in my soul.
“I accept, my love.” She smiles, a gleam twinkling in her eyes. “And rest assured, this is a partnership I will never sign away.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Bella
Of all the merry sights on Christmas Day, there is none quite so gay as the smile of a friend—five, to be exact. Oohs and aahs fill the Old Lace Shop—and my heart—as the blind women wander about the grand space, their arms outstretched and their faces alight with wonder. This is where they belong, far from the grip of cold and hunger, and I say as much as I usher them to the large table spread with a holiday feast.
And what a table it is. Bowls of filberts. Dishes of buttered Spanish onions. Baskets of bread shaped into stars and angel wings. At center, there is a pyramid of apples, pears, and grapes, adding colour and a sweet, fruity aroma—one that mixes well with the twangy scent from the pine swags draped across the ceiling. On the walls, the orange pomanders Flora and I made hang at intervals from the fruit-and-nut garland. Granted, the decor is rather homely compared to the richness of a London town house bedecked for a Yuletide dinner, but I wouldn’t trade places for all the queen’s jewels.
Church bells toll the hour, and I count each chime. Three o’clock. It’s a struggle to keep from bouncing on my toes, so I settle for fingering my mother’s pearl necklace instead. I’ve never felt so at peace, so alive, so grateful to God for the blessings He’s bestowed. The crowning touch will soon arrive—a roasted goose, all buttery and sizzling. I cannot wait to share this meal with the women I’ve come to love—and the man I love even more.
3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 44
