The wide smile crossing her face made him feel more courageous than any battlefield triumph.
The baron threw in all his field artillery. “I’m bring her out in society again. She can do better than the penniless son of a viscount. She’ll not cook in my kitchens.”
This time, Simon squeezed Rebecca’s hand and let her reply. No trace of uncertainty lingered in her eyes as she sent him a warming glance and turned to her father. “I like to cook, Father. I’m not any good at dancing and flirting, but I’m a very good wife. And I’m very good at choosing my own husband. I’d like to be a good daughter, if you’ll let me, but I won’t let you tell me what to do anymore. I’m a grown woman now. I know what’s best for me better than you do.”
“Good at choosing your own husband! Just look at this hovel! How can you say—” The baron halted his speech when Rebecca leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Before he could continue, she tugged Simon toward the kitchen and gestured for the girls to come down where they belonged.
“It isn’t money that makes me happy, Papa. I thrive on love. Come along before the goose is burned. I’m certain Simon must be starved by now. Lucille, fill the gravy boat and set it out, dear. Mary, it’s your turn to light the candles. I think we ought to let Simon say grace today. We have much to give thanks for.”
With a grin, Simon pulled Rebecca back long enough to brush a kiss across her forehead. Then he released her to take charge of her particular field of battle. He stayed behind to deal with his.
The baron chewed furiously on the tip of his mustache. A drafty wind blew down the unheated hall, and Simon led the way into the simple country kitchen where the fireplace filled every cranny with glowing warmth. The carefully pressed linen tablecloth gleamed with old china and crystal, handed down from generation to generation. A mismatched plate or two and an occasional crack disappeared easily beneath the beauty of candlelight and fragrant evergreens arranged in the center of the table. The scent of roasting goose and apple tarts erased any disapproval from the hardest of hearts.
“I love your daughter,” Simon stated matter-of-factly, watching as Rebecca darted from stove to table to cabinet. She turned and gave him a wide-eyed stare.
He knew he wasn’t doing this properly. He had no experience on this particular battlefield. But as a raw recruit, he would learn. His look of confidence received a blinding smile in return. “I’m of good family and have many prospects. I’m thinking of taking a seat for one of my father’s boroughs. There are things in our country’s policies that need changing.”
Simon couldn’t believe said these words, but he realized he meant them. He hadn’t failed yet. He’d just given up too soon. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Watching Rebecca, he knew he would never give up.
Disgruntled, the baron wrapped his hands around the back of the best chair in the house. Glancing from his daughter to Simon, he growled, “Your father’s boroughs don’t have enough power to change table linen. I’ve got one in Gloucester that has enough money behind it to make those prigs in parliament sit up and pay attention.”
Simon finally relaxed and admired the slender sway of Rebecca’s back as she ladled soup into a tureen. He hadn’t won her yet. He had a victory or two under his belt, but he hadn’t cleared the battlefield or claimed his territory. But he would. He’d found a prize worth fighting for, a prize who made him want to fight again. He didn’t intend to give up this time.
* * * *
With the scattered remains of dinner still surrounding them and the girls entertaining the gruff old man in the front room, Simon moved a little closer to his goal. Taking the towel from her hands, he turned Rebecca into his arms, and watched the pink flush her cheeks.
“I know it’s too soon, Rebecca. I don’t want to rush you. Just tell me if I have a chance. I need to hear the words. I haven’t misunderstood, have I? I do have a chance?”
Shyly, she brushed a disheveled strand of hair from his face. She made no effort to move from his embrace. “I’ve only had the opportunity for wishful thinking until now, Simon. But I’ve seen enough of London and met enough men to know my own mind. You’re so much like Matthew in many ways, and in others”—she shrugged and smiled apologetically—”in other ways, you’re so much stronger. I loved him as a girl, Simon. I’ll love you as a woman loves. Can you accept that?”
The kiss he bestowed upon her gave his reply and more.
* * * *
And in the parlor, Mary whispered into her sister’s ear, “I got my pudding wish, Lucy. We have our goose and the baron and Simon, too. Isn’t Christmas wonderful?”
Christmas Angel
“The Queen may decorate her palace as she pleases, but this is a place of worship, Marian, and I cannot allow it! It’s pagan and ungodly.”
“Even pagans worshiped a god, Bernard. And there is nowhere else to put it. I promised the children a tree, and a tree they shall have.”
The young woman with her arms full of evergreens proceeded boldly up the church aisle toward the altar rail, the unfashionable gray serge of her gown swaying modestly over full petticoats. The anxious vicar in his dark coat followed close behind, nervously fingering his mustache.
“What if the family should come? They will think I have allowed their church to fall into sacrilegious rites. Just think of what they might say, Marian.”
The shadowy figure at the rear of the church halted at this turn of the argument. With amusement, he waited for the outspoken lady’s reply.
“Bernard, should Lord Sedgwick miraculously take up residence for the first time in twenty years, he would not be bothered to attend services. From all I’ve heard, he never attended when he was here. And even should God have sent some revelation that brought him into these hallowed interiors for the first time in his life, he would no doubt be carried in on his death bed and would not see nor care that we have brightened these dreary walls a trifle for the holidays.”
The young vicar flinched at these cynical words, then shoving an unruly lock of dark hair back from his face, he helped lay the armload of evergreens on the first pew while the young woman in a plain coiffure too solemn for the season brought a ball of bright red ribbon from her pocket.
The figure in the background unashamedly took a seat in the last pew.
“It’s not seemly, Marian,” the vicar offered in one last protest. Perhaps the evergreen for the Christmas pageant, but not the tree. This is the Lord’s house, not someone’s parlor.”
“Perhaps the Lord would like to have a parlor, too.” The determined woman called Marian unclipped the scissors at her belt and began to snip equal lengths of ribbon. “The children have suffered so much this year, Bernard, you cannot deny them. First it was that dreadful influenza that took so many lives, then the cholera over in the factory town, and then the flood came and took everything along the river. Now the factory is closed down, and while I might be the first to say good riddance, it has left so many unemployed and hungry, we simply cannot deprive them of this one small treat. If you will not do it, I shall transfer my services to the Methodists.”
“Marian, you would not!” Aghast at this traitorous threat even though he suspected she was not serious, the vicar absentmindedly held the evergreen against the altar rail while his antagonist tied a big bow around it. “Your family has been Anglican for centuries. They would turn over in their graves did you do such a thing,” he reminded her for good measure.
“Moldering bones aren’t going to care if I play here or over at the river. And the children won’t either. I am sure I will find a choir just as eager as yours, and I have already spoken with that new Methodist minister. He is having an apple-bobbing and then they are going caroling. I have offered to help him find evergreens for that small box of a church of his, and he has eagerly accepted.”
She threw too many defiant subjects at him at once, and Bernard shook his head to clear the way for argument. “You should not speak of the deceased so disrespectfully. And you have your mother a
nd brothers and sisters to think of. They have always attended church here and will not be happy if you go elsewhere. And I suppose I dare not ask where this abundant supply of evergreen comes from. I can think of only one place. And besides,” he added triumphantly, as an afterthought, “the Methodists do not have an organ.”
Ignoring the reference to the instrument, Marian took up the argument where it was pertinent. “Well, I scarcely think the Sedgwicks will notice some missing greenery, after all. And the gatekeeper’s children are in the pageant and he allows me all I like. Here, if you will loop this branch, I will tie it off and come back later to finish. It’s almost time for the children to arrive, and I’m not certain Mama is at home to keep them in order.” Marian straightened, brushed the pine needles off the gray serge of her heavy gown, and offered a smile of reassurance to the bemused vicar. “I believe God loves little children as much as I do, Bernard. He will not object.”
With that little concession, she swirled around and hurried out the side door, leaving the vicar to stare helplessly at the mound of fresh-smelling pine. Fingering the lengths of bright red ribbon, he bent to pick up another branch for the chain when a slight cough at the rear of the church caught his attention.
Embarrassed, he hastily brushed his hand against his coat and stepped down the aisle toward the approaching figure in an elegantly cut short frock coat in the gray of half mourning, with top hat carried respectfully beneath his arm. The cut of the coat was slightly foreign to the London fashions with which he was familiar, but definitely of an expensive nature. Hopes rising, Bernard hurried forward to offer a proper greeting.
“How might I help you, sir?”
Despite the soberness of his formal attire, the gentleman’s eyes appeared to be twinkling with some hidden laughter, and his slender face seemed almost incapable of containing the grin twitching at his long, firm mouth. His hands, however, were appropriately gloved and strong as he held one out to the vicar.
“Your lady friend is a mite strong-willed, I’d say. Your fiancée?”
Bernard’s frown turned to confusion at this assumption. The stranger’s accent was nothing like any he had ever heard, combining something of the polished tones of the aristocracy with an odd twang that reminded him somewhat of an American cousin who had once visited. But speculation was not part of his job.
“A good friend,” Bernard asserted firmly, shaking the stranger’s hand. “She lost her fiancée last year in a tragic accident at the factory.”
“And has been bent on reforming the town ever since, no doubt,” the stranger replied wryly. “Have you noticed how women seem ill content to stay at home anymore? ‘‘
Bernard offered a diffident shrug. “The world moves much too quickly, even in this small village. How might I help you?”
The stranger looked slightly embarrassed as he brushed invisible dust from his immaculate black hat. “Well, it seems I am temporarily discommoded. I had thought to take rooms at the inn, but there has been a serious coach accident; two vehicles collided at great speed, I believe. I gave up my room to some ladies who seemed in more need of it than I, thinking I might call on Sedgwick for hospitality. I knew the family wasn’t in residence, but I had rather thought there would be someone in attendance. I was ill-informed it seems. Now I am temporarily without lodging. I thought, perhaps, you might know of someone hereabouts who might take boarders.”
Bernard hesitated somewhere between doubt and delight. “You know the family?”
“You might say that. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself.” Holding out his hand, he offered, “I’m Alan Ellington.”
Reassured by this use of the Sedgwick family name, Bernard shook his hand gratefully. “I’m honored to meet you, Mr. Ellington. We’ve not had a member of the family in residence in many years, since before my time, I fear. It’s a pity you must come this year, when they have closed up the Hall. Bess and old George would have been delighted to put you up, were they still there. I am Bernard Dryden, at your service.”
“Well, Mr. Dryden, it is my own fault for arriving unannounced. Would it be impossible to find somewhere else to stay until I can make other arrangements?”
Brought back from his fantasies of a member of the aristocracy moving back into the Hall, Bernard reluctantly considered the matter. He had no notion what relation the stranger was to the family or if he truly were who he said he was, but he seemed respectable and well-off. And if there were no room at the inn...
“It might be a trifle inconvenient for you,” Bernard answered hesitantly. “We have no one putting up boarders per se, but the Chadwicks have an empty chamber now that their eldest son has married and moved away. And I venture to say that they could use the income, though don’t tell them I said that. Shall I take you by to see?”
“I would be most appreciative.” Replacing his hat on his head, Ellington followed the vicar outside into the gray chill of a December evening.
They had not far to walk from the church, and looking at the large house that the English called a cottage in their inestimable understated manner, Ellington ventured to think that it must once have been the residence of the local squire. Set back in a wilderness of trees and rampant rhododendrons, hemmed in on either side by meandering stone houses set against the street and awkward brick warehouses of more recent construction to the rear, the two-story Tudor style manor still retained much of its dignity. Mullioned panes sparkled warmly with the light of oil lamps behind them, and though the ravages of time marred the timbers and plaster, and moss and ivy covered much of the stone, the house appeared well-kept.
The impression was even stronger when a mob-capped maid hastened to answer the door, making a faulty curtsy in startlement at the sight of the visitors. A rush of warmth enveloped them as they entered the spacious front hall, and Ellington felt a sudden pang of hunger as the scent of spiced cakes and roasting chicken wafted around them. Childish voices sang in angelic tones from the room beyond while another maid managed to stretch up a ladder to hang a piece of holly while craning her neck around the doorway to observe the goings-on within. Somehow, the chaos of sight and scent and sound made him feel at home, and Ellington took off his hat with every intention of staying, whatever the cost.
While the maid scurried off to find the mistress of the house at Bernard’s urging, Ellington allowed his gaze to stray around the gracious hall. Relatively barren compared to most of the houses with which he was familiar, it had a dignity all its own. An ancient sideboard along one wall held a basket of apples and a riot of greenery waiting to be hung. The faded carpet nearly blended into the gray flagstone floor, and Ellington imagined the owners of all those childish voices scampering over it without a care for muddy footprints, although he rather thought the design resembled a rare Persian he had once admired in his travels. An oak staircase circled upward along the wall to his right, its banisters gleaming with years of beeswax. A slight movement from the space beneath the stairway caused him to nonchalantly turn his head away, while still keeping an eye on the cubbyhole. Without surprise, he noted a cherub’s golden curls peeping out, followed by a pair of brilliant blue eyes that looked slightly familiar, and then a chocolate-rimmed mouth. Grubby hands held the remains of a stolen treat from the kitchen, and Ellington grinned. He had the sudden feeling he knew whose house this was.
He wasn’t in the least surprised when the angelic tones suddenly erupted into shrieks of joy, and a slender figure in drab gray appeared in the parlor doorway. While the infants in the room behind her apparently launched into a frenzy of biscuit munching, Ellington studied the young woman he had seen so briefly at the church.
Thick chestnut tresses were drawn back and held loosely in a heavy net adorned only with a velvet ribbon. Her simple day dress belled out over a modest petticoat and not the large crinoline he had come to expect on ladies. The brilliant blue eyes Ellington had noted in the child under the stairway stared back at him from a face with no particular claim to beauty, but creamy skin and s
ooty lashes and generous mouth combined with a striking attractiveness to hold his gaze. He didn’t dare allow his gaze to wander farther, for she was already frowning at him, or at the vicar. Ellington wasn’t quite certain.
“Mama’s still over at the Donaldsons’, Bernard. Mrs. Donaldson hasn’t recovered enough to be allowed out of bed yet, and with all those young ones, there’s so much to do. I daresay she’s helping with supper and will be back after a while. Would you prefer to come back then?”
“You and your mother take too much upon yourselves, Marian. Visiting the sick is very well and good when there’s no one at home to depend upon you, but did you know little John is sitting in his nightshirt underneath the stairs, no doubt eating himself sick on Christmas cake? And with Laura still recovering from the influenza, it seems you have enough to do here. Did you ever stop to think that charity might begin at home?”
Blue eyes snapped with anger. “That’s a fine idea, Bernard, were there anyone else to do what we do. Since the noble Sedgwicks have seen fit to leave the village to struggle on its own, someone must look after the unfortunate. Perhaps you should marry someone ready to carry out the duties of vicar’s wife, but since you seem in no hurry, who else would you recommend to see after the ill and elderly? Perhaps you can persuade the town parish to provide for those who have not?”
Momentarily abashed, Bernard still managed to hold his own. “You know perfectly well that this is not a wealthy parish, Marian. Everyone gives as they can. Now let us not argue in front of Mr. Ellington. I fear he has already received a wrong impression.” Anxiously, the vicar turned to indicate the tall stranger watching with amused eyes as he made the introductions. “Marian Chadwick, this is Mr. Alan Ellington, come to stay a few days with us.”
Given permission to turn fully toward the stranger, Marian offered a hand in greeting while observing the suspicious laughter behind black-lashed gray eyes. His complexion was more swarthy than any proper Englishman’s, but even she could recognize the quality of his starched linen and the silk cravat that was obviously not the made-up kind. Wearing only short side-whiskers without the mustache of fashion, he had a slightly exotic appearance for this small town. Looking away from the laughter in his eyes, Marian’s gaze fell on the band of mourning on his coat sleeve, and her hand squeezed his lightly in sympathy before returning to her side.
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