Christmas Surprises

by Patricia Rice

“I apologize, sir,” the woman said breathlessly as she walked at his side, holding her ribs as she gasped for air. “Just look at you! You’re all over mud. As soon as I get those dratted animals locked up, we’ll go inside and I’ll see what I can do to right the mess. Although I daresay that mud will stain,” she said doubtfully, giving his trousers a second look.

  “I’ve had worse than mud stains before,” he answered, the smile disappearing as he remembered the valiant soldier who had served as his valet these last years. O’Hara had always known how to remove mud and blood and the scars of war. The man had been blown to bits in a retreat that went astray not many months ago. “You need to find some way to control these animals of yours.”

  She shrugged, and he noticed the muddy tear in her shawl, apparently another victim of their fall. She had the shawl tied loosely over her bodice, so he could see little of the figure beneath, but her reed-slimness gave the impression of frailty, although she stood nearly as tall as he.

  “The girls insist on making pets of them, and I haven’t the heart to tell them all creatures have a purpose. I’m afraid we’ll end up feeding that rapacious pig for the rest of our lives instead of turning him into the ham he’s supposed to be.”

  They shooed the pig back into its sty and locked the protesting dog in the barn before turning back toward the house. Only then did she stop and give him a quizzical look. “We haven’t met, have we? I’m sorry. My manners are abominable these days.”

  Simon would say her manners were immensely practical, but he supposed one didn’t address an unknown lady with such familiarity. He’d been too long from civilization himself. He made a brief bow, only then realizing his state of undress. The last he’d seen of his cravat, it had trailed through mud and briar in the front hedge.

  “I apologize. I’m Simon Lemaster, an old friend of Matthew’s. I just heard he’d left a widow, and along with returning your dog, I meant to pay my condolences. I hadn’t realized I scarcely look the part of proper caller.” He gave his rumpled clothing a wry look. “I think I’m the one whose manners have gone begging.”

  “Lemaster!” she exclaimed with a little more enthusiasm, her too-wide lips turning up in a brilliant smile. “Matthew told me all about you and the escapades the two of you indulged in. It’s a wonder either of you lived to see maturity. I keep congratulating myself that I have only his sisters to contend with and not any little brothers who might resemble either of you. I’m Rebecca.”

  She calmly led him through the kitchen door as if he were one of the family instead of a guest. She gestured toward a bench near the fire. “Take off those wet boots while I make some tea. Your feet must be frozen.”

  She’d no doubt attributed his limp to wet, cold feet. If he didn’t remove his stockings, she’d see no less. Simon shrugged and did as told. In truth, it felt good to remove the confining boots from his aching toes. “How old are the girls now? They were always pests we managed to elude. Surely they’re nearly grown?”

  “Just old enough to cause trouble. Mary is twelve, and Lucille’s fifteen. Matthew always said had his sister Johanna lived, he could have left the lot to her, but she died in childbirth some years ago. I don’t mind, though. Had it not been for the girls, he would probably have waited until he returned from war to marry me, and then I would never have married at all.”

  She said it quite matter-of-factly, without a hint of anguish as she went about setting the teapot on the stove and measuring the leaves. Simon noted she measured very carefully, as if the tea leaves had the value of gold. Glancing around, he saw little in the way of food. Behind the open pantry door he glimpsed a sack of flour and a container he thought might contain sugar. No meat cooked over the fire or hung on the drying rack. He remembered a time when this kitchen was redolent of baking pastries, roasting meats, and savory stews. The weak concoction simmering on the old stove now barely carried the odor of meat.

  “Would you like a bit of apple tart with your tea?” she asked, removing her torn shawl and attempting to disguise an expression of dismay as she noticed the tear. Biting her lip, she slipped on a clean apron and washed her hands at the pump.

  Not seeing anything resembling a tart anywhere in the kitchen, Simon was about to politely decline when she removed the cold pastry from a shelf above the stove. From his sitting position, he couldn’t have seen it up there. He couldn’t remember Matthew’s mother ever keeping anything on that shelf, but then, old Mrs. Tarkington had barely stood five-foot high. This Widow Tarkington had sufficient height to dust the low kitchen ceiling without standing on a chair.

  Stomach rumbling, he could scarcely decline. He remembered the apples he and Matthew used to filch from the old trees out back. They’d always tasted sweeter than any others he’d ever eaten. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten crunchy apples or even a tart.

  The Widow Tarkington moved gracefully for a tall woman. A steaming hot cup of tea appeared before him along with the tart topped by a little cream. With the fire warming his back and hot food in his stomach, he felt transported to a time when he’d thought those niceties constituted heaven. He closed his eyes and savored the warmth and aromas, then found himself noticing the fresh mild scent of the widow’s skin as she refilled his cup.

  His eyes flew open again, but she hadn’t noticed his momentary aberration. She merely took a seat at the table with him and warmed her fingers on her hot cup. Simon wondered about her background, where Matthew might have found her. She certainly didn’t come from the village. She had thick whisky-colored hair pulled back in an unfashionable bun, and eyes he could call neither gray nor green, but she possessed a calm air of assurance none of the village girls would have shown in this situation. Most of them giggled and looked at the floor when he was around.

  Before he could open his mouth to ask the question hovering on the tip of his tongue, the front door opened and the echo of girlish laughter drifted down the long hall, followed by the loud tramp of feet and the shouts of young voices.

  “Rebecca! Rebecca! We talked to the vicar’s wife!”

  Simon couldn’t distinguish one voice from the other, but he could tell both talked at once. Rebecca winced and rolled her eyes at their unladylike exuberance, but she rose with a smile on her face to greet them.

  “Lucille, Mary, we have company. Mind your manners,” she admonished gently, catching the youngest by the shoulders to gently brush her long hair back out of her face, turning her to face their guest properly.

  Both girls bobbed hasty curtsies and made polite murmurs of greeting, but instantly turned back to Rebecca for the topic most on their minds.

  “Mrs. Lofton says you might go a’Thomasing. She says it’s perfectly proper. Then we might have enough for a goose and to buy those ribbons in the window.” As the eldest, Mary spoke first, keeping her voice just short of pleading.

  The color in Rebecca’s cheeks faded, but she managed to speak quietly and proudly, not even looking at their guest. “We will not discuss this again, girls. Begging is only for those who have nothing, and we have a great deal. Now run upstairs and wash. We need to begin dinner.”

  She tried to behave as if the girls hadn’t embarrassed her to the bottoms of her feet as they ran, protesting, from the room. She set her cup on the sink, cleaned up an apple spill on the side of the pan, and carefully replaced the remains of the tart back on the shelf. She’d left just enough to split between the two girls. Mr. Lemaster had eaten the piece she had meant for herself. She didn’t mind. It had been rather pleasant having an adult conversation in the middle of the day like this. She didn’t often have time.

  She felt his silence and wished for something with which to fill the void. They both spoke at once.

  “I don’t suppose you...” he started to say.

  “I apologize for the...” she began and stopped.

  She turned, and they smiled hesitantly at each other. He wasn’t a bad looking man when he smiled. She’d thought him harsh earlier, with grim lines along
the side of his mouth, and cheekbones hollowed to rawness, but when he smiled, she could see the laugh lines beside his eyes, and his face took on a whole new demeanor. She could picture him swirling lovely young ladies around the dance floor, their eyes sparkling up at him as he whispered pretty words in their ears. He was that kind of man. The handsome, wealthy, spoiled kind. The kind who ignored gawky, intelligent, plain women such as she.

  “Ladies first,” he murmured politely. “Although you really don’t need to apologize for the girls. They’re young and it’s Christmas. They want everything they see. I have a young nephew who’s convinced I can give him the stars if I so chose. He’s demanding a big one.”

  She laughed. That was the awful thing about handsome, charming men. They could make you laugh and feel good with just their words. They meant nothing by them. The charm just came easily to them, smoothing over rough spots, getting them out of difficult situations without harm to themselves. If they eased someone else’s way in passing, fine, but more often than not, they ended up leaving a trail of tears. She was too smart to see more in his words than was there.

  “I’m not at all certain those two would be satisfied with a star unless they could wear it in their hair. It’s been a rough few years for them, but they still believe Christmas is a magical time, one when miracles come true. I have yet to teach them that we must make our own miracles.”

  He leaned over and pulled on his boots. “It’s a shame we can’t all keep that belief. What I started to ask was if you would mind sending your apple tart recipe up to our cook. I would be happy to deliver it myself. I have never tasted anything so delightful in my life.”

  Rebecca blushed. She knew better. She kicked herself mentally. But Matthew had been dead well over a year and not home for longer than that. She had very little experience in dealing with a man’s flattery, in any event. Obviously, she must be starved for masculine attention.

  She tried to respond coolly. “The type of apple makes all the difference, and the amount of seasoning. A sweet apple needs less sugar, a tart apple cooks better but requires more cinnamon. And since tastes differ, not all cooks produce the same results.”

  He gave her a quick glance as he straightened his last boot. “I suppose that goes for a lot of things. If I bring you the other ingredients, do you have enough apples to make one of those tarts for me? I’ll be happy to pay you for your labor.”

  Rebecca narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but he seemed perfectly sincere. “You needn’t go to that trouble. I’ll send a tart up to the house on the morrow. That’s my baking day anyway.” She lied through her teeth, but she wouldn’t have this man seeing her as a charity case. She had little left but her pride, but she would cling to it for as long as she could.

  He stood up, towering over her as few men did. The laugh lines had disappeared. “It is foolish to give away what others will buy. The labor and ingredients for a tart like that come dearly. We pay our cook and the grocer and the kitchen maids for the likes of that. Why should you not be reimbursed as well? Then the girls could have their ribbons.”

  She wrapped her hands in a towel and tried not to glare at him. “I am not your cook or your kitchen maid or your grocer. I am your neighbor. In case you have not noticed, I am not in trade.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and wisely nodded his head before stalking to the door. Rebecca couldn’t call it anything else but stalking. Simon Lemaster liked to have his own way. He was the type of man who liked to reorganize the world around him to match his ideals. And she hadn’t conformed. Her father had tried for over twenty years, and she’d never learned the knack. God had given her height instead of docility. Mostly, she didn’t mind. But Simon Lemaster wasn’t precisely happy with the arrangement.

  “I thank you for the tea, Mrs. Tarkington,” he said stiffly, opening the door. Then, with a brief nod, he was gone.

  She wanted to sigh in relief. She wanted to be glad that the meddlesome man had received his comeuppance. But it had felt so good having a man in the kitchen again, hearing a deep voice praise her cooking, have a helping hand with the wretched animals. She had nearly wept with relief when he’d come to rescue her from the dratted pig. She had instantly bestowed upon him the part of conquering hero: strong, brave, handsome. But he was made of clay like all the others.

  Quashing her easily aroused daydreams, Rebecca returned to the real world with the advent of the girls to help with dinner. Assigning each of them a task, she tried not to let their chatter pierce her easily wounded heart. They thought all adults invincible. They needed to believe in that security. She wouldn’t allow them to learn otherwise.

  “Molly said last year she got a fur muff and fur-lined gloves,” Lucille declared. “And this year she’s asked for a fur-lined cape to match.”

  “Just think of all the bunny rabbits that must have died for her,” Rebecca responded absently. She had given up hope of convincing the girls they didn’t need everything they saw, but she couldn’t give up the practice of teaching them.

  “Bunny rabbits?” Mary asked, wide-eyed. “That’s bunny rabbit fur? Oh, how awful!”

  “Fur has to come from animals,” Rebecca answered calmly, hiding her smile. “And I shouldn’t think there’s much left of her muff to match this year. Rabbit fur sheds abominably.”

  “You’re making that up,” Lucille said suspiciously, chopping at her carrots.

  Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “And when have I ever lied to you?” She waited for that to sink in before continuing, “Once I learn the knack of weaving wool into yarn, I can make you warm gloves and hats and coats, and they will all match, and no one will have anything like them. You just have to be patient.”

  “Molly says only peasants wear wool and make their own yarn,” Lucille muttered scornfully. “Her mother buys velvets and the prettiest embroidery thread in London. Papa used to buy us velvet dresses every Christmas. And we used always to have goose for Christmas dinner.”

  Rebecca tried to keep the tears away. Once upon a time, she’d had a father who bought her velvet and silk dresses, any kind she’d ever asked for. She’d had cooks and maids and a horse of her own. She’d never worn wool, knew nothing of where it came from. The only practical thing she had ever learned was how to cook and bake, and that was because she’d spent so much of her time mooching whatever she wanted to eat from the kitchens. She’d lost all that and would never see it again. She’d traded it willingly for the chance to be Matthew’s wife, but she knew how Lucille felt. She couldn’t fault the child for expressing the same desires and thoughts she had when she donned her scratchy woolen gown each morning, or stared at another meal of turnips.

  “Maybe next year the sheep will have a finer wool and will bring a better price,” she answered without too much hope. She knew nothing of sheep. Matthew had left a manager in charge of the few they possessed. The sum the man had given her after the shearing hadn’t been enough to do more than pay their most pressing debts.

  “Do you think we might have a plum pudding this year?” Mary asked timidly. Of the two girls, Mary was the quietest, the easiest to frighten, the one who tried the hardest. Rebecca understood that the three people Mary had counted on most in this world had been ripped from her short life without warning, and the child feared Rebecca, too, would one day disappear. It was an impossible fear to ease. She could only love the little girl and pray circumstances would improve.

  Rebecca had no idea how she would make one of the elaborate plum puddings her family used to serve, but perhaps she could come up with a more modest version. Brushing a kiss over Mary’s hair, she gave her a hug. “Let’s see what we can do, all right? Tomorrow I must make a tart for the viscount’s family, so I will go into town and see what I can find.”

  Both girls cheered considerably at the prospect, and Rebecca nearly wept at the easiness of pleasing them. At their age, she would have thrown a tantrum had she not received a dozen gifts, had her plum pudding and cooked goose, and a Yule log
larger than two men could carry. She had been spoiled horribly. Perhaps that was why she had been so determined to have Matthew after her parents had said she could not have him. Still, she refused to regret the few short weeks they had together. She just regretted the result.

  As if reading her mind, Lucille asked, “Will your papa come to visit this year, do you think, Rebecca? You must miss him.”

  Rebecca wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a floury streak across her face. “No, I think not, Lucy. He’s old and set in his ways. We’ll just send him a cheery note, shall we?”

  She didn’t expect a reply this year any more than in years past, but she refused to be as cold as he.

  * * * *

  “My word, Simon! What have you done to yourself?” Looking alarmed, the Viscountess Lemaster studied her younger son’s ruined clothing as he came through the upper hall. “You have not been to the cliffs, have you? You could have fallen!”

  He could have taken a bullet or a cannonball any number of times these past years, Simon thought dryly, but his mother hadn’t been there to see that. She only worried about those things she could see.

  “I did fall, but not on the cliffs. Why didn’t you tell me Matthew left a widow? I should have called sooner.” He was impatient to change out of his filthy clothing, but he had a restless need to learn more about the woman he’d just left. Where could Matthew have possibly met her? She had too much sophistication for a village girl, but she wore none of the physical attributes of a lady.

  “I didn’t realize you hadn’t met her, dear. Why don’t you go change those horrible clothes while I call for tea? You must be starved.”

  He had a thousand questions he wished to ask, but Simon nodded and wandered off to his own chamber first. He would never get a word out of his mother otherwise.

  Once properly bathed and attired, he returned to the parlor, where the entire family had gathered in front of the fire for tea. His father sat scribbling at a small desk, only occasionally sipping at his tea or nibbling at a sandwich. His eldest brother, Thomas, had his head together with his wife, Helen, obviously discussing Christmas preparations, while the twins bounced merrily on the sofa, entertaining their grandmother with this unexpected visit in adult company.