Christmas Surprises

by Patricia Rice

  “My pleasure, Mr. Ellington. You are some relation to the Sedgwick Ellingtons, I presume?”

  She didn’t waste time. After hearing her opinion of all things related to Sedgwick Hall and its owners, Alan thought it the better part of wisdom to hold his tongue. “I understand there is some relation, yes. I have spent much of the last year traveling and thought it might be interesting to see the ancestral beginnings at Christmastime. I had not realized the Hall would be closed for the season.”

  Marian made an inelegant noise. “For the season? You might tell Bess and George that. They’ve kept that drafty monstrosity for the best of their lives, only to be told their services were no longer needed, just in time for a merry Christmas. Your ancestors might have a lot to answer for, Mr. Ellington, but it’s the present Earl of Sedgwick who ought to be taken out and shot. Poor old Bess crippled up with arthritis like she is and no home of her own after all these years of looking after someone else’s, and he sends her a letter saying she’s no longer needed. I swear, if I ever meet that man—”

  Bernard took her arm warningly. “Don’t, Marian. It does no good to rail against what cannot be changed. I’m certain the earl had very good reason for what he did. Farm prices are not what they should be, you know that. It’s possible the upkeep on the Hall has become unmanageable. And he cannot know about Bess and George. At least he left the gatekeeper on. They will be fine there until we can find somewhere else for them to go.”

  Ellington was beginning to look uncomfortable beneath her wrath, and Marian took a breath and tried to remember he was a stranger and had no part in their troubles. “Pardon me, sir. I’m certain you had naught to do with any of this. Since Mama is not here, is there anything I can help you with?”

  Bernard answered for his guest. “There’s been a coaching accident and the inn is full. Mr. Ellington gallantly gave up his room to the injured but now has nowhere to stay the night. I thought of Robert’s room. Would it be too much to impose on you if Mr. Ellington stayed here while he makes other arrangements?’’

  Having gauged the full measure of this lovely virago, Alan offered, “I will make a large charitable donation to any cause you espouse, Miss Chadwick, and pay well for my keep for the short time I must stay. I have no family on these shores and thought to find some homecoming at Sedgwick for the Christmas holidays, but I can see that is not to be. Would you extend your charitable indulgences to a wayfaring stranger?”

  He was laughing at her, Marian knew, and she felt rather uncomfortable at being a figure of fun to this elegant stranger. She supposed she ought to be wearing a pretty pink gown and offering him tea and batting her eyelashes. She was quite certain that was what he expected from the females of his acquaintance. But as a country miss with little or no prospects, she did not have to cater to his expectations.

  “I would not send you out in the cold homeless, Mr. Ellington, but I cannot offer what is not mine to give. We will need to wait for Mama. Perhaps you would care to come in for some tea while we wait? I’m afraid the children are becoming a little restless and I must return to them.”

  Turning without waiting for his answer, she hurried back into the parlor where the sound of rising voices indicated impending warfare. Bernard looked resigned as he met the stranger’s questioning look.

  “The choir is preparing for the Christmas pageant. Miss Chadwick is the church organist and choir director. There are so very few of the old families willing to help any longer, and I fear the youngsters nowadays are not all that they should be. We need an older woman capable of maintaining order, but Miss Chadwick tries her best, I’m sure.” He added this last hurriedly at the questioning lift of Mr. Ellington’s disapproving brow.

  Wishing to investigate the youthful noises further and not averse to seeing the redoubtable Miss Chadwick in action, Alan followed her through the doorway without answering. Although the scene unfolding before him had the sound of Bedlam, he could readily discern a certain order to the madness. The warriors had already been separated under Miss Chadwick’s firm direction. The one with vanilla icing smeared in his hair was already kneeling obediently beside a makeshift cradle and doll obviously representing the Christ child in the manger. The more recalcitrant combatant was still pouting as his face was being cleaned from what could be blood or an excess of red candy or both. The other children were returning to their various formations as a choir of angels and participants in the manger scene. It very much appeared as if three of the children were portraying donkeys or sheep, and Alan bit back a smile as they curled into appropriate animal-like attitudes. Unfortunately, one could not resist the equally animal-like urge to nip at another, and another tussle was about to ensue when he marched forward to grab their attention.

  “I may have heard that animals talked the night the Christ child was born, but I’m quite certain that they did not fight or bite,” Alan said thoughtfully, piercing one antagonist with a steely look while coming to stand closely by the other.

  Just that one comment—or perhaps his presence—sent the chattering to new levels of excitement. The sheep and donkeys sat up and regarded him with silent awe, but talking animals was a subject for much speculation and strangers in their midst were an opportunity for attention. Each individual in the choir had an opinion on the matter, and the young shepherd with icing in his hair found a fascination with the shine of the newcomer’s boots that required him to lean over and admire his mirrored image.

  Marian threw up her hands in despair over this collapse of decorum, but whatever tirade she meant to unleash went unspoken by a second interruption from the doorway.

  “My goodness! Is practice over already? Bernard, how good to see you. Did you come to see how the pageant progresses?” A swirl of bonnet and shawl and gloves swept into the room to come face-to-face with the aristocratic stranger who seemed to dominate the small parlor. She came to a halt before him and opened eyes as wide and blue as her daughter’s as she gazed up into his face. “My goodness, if you aren’t the image of Bartholomew. Has he come home, at last?”

  Alan gracefully bent over her hand, issuing a small squeeze of warning. “Mrs. Chadwick, I assume, it is good to meet you. Mr. Dryden, here, has asked me to presume upon your hospitality for a while.”

  Elena Chadwick shot him a look of wry surprise when he did not respond to her question, but she politely turned to the vicar. “Of course, we will be happy to put up your guest for as long as he needs. That is, if he does not mind the confusion. Oh dear—” She dropped the subject of their guest as she hurried to rescue an urchin whose curiosity had led him too close to the fire.

  Resolutely, Marian gave up any attempt at regaining order. The older girls were whispering and staring through dreamy eyes at the exotic stranger, and the boys were on the brink of dissolving into wrestling matches to catch his attention. With brisk efficiency, she began gathering up their coats and shawls and dismissing them with a reminder of their rehearsal on the day after next. It would be a wonder if everyone knew their songs by the day of the pageant. She could only pray they would know their places.

  Sending Mr. Ellington a look of curiosity as he retreated to a far corner with Bernard, Marian wondered who he really was and what he was doing here, but there wasn’t time enough to find out. Perhaps in the morning, in the kitchen, she could winkle the information out of her mother. Her mother had lived here all of her life and knew everyone and everything. Marian was quite certain she could not know the stranger for he was not that very much older than she, and she would certainly remember anyone with so distinctive an appearance as Mr. Ellington. But it was very possible that her mother knew the stranger’s family, particularly if he really were an Ellington.

  Remembering her disparagement of the Ellington family and her cynical comments about their return, Marian turned pink about the ears but disguised it with her industriousness in bundling up one of the youngest children. Surely he couldn’t be one of the Sedgwick Ellingtons, or he could have ordered the house opened rather
than imposing on their small household. He was undoubtedly some distant cousin touring through the countryside looking for his wealthy and aristocratic relations so he might take home stories to brag about. Although he certainly didn’t look as if he needed someone else’s stories to tell.

  * * * *

  “Who is he, Mama? You said he resembled Bartholomew. Who is Bartholomew? An old beau?” Folding raisins into the cake batter while her mother arranged toast and jam on a tray, Marian valiantly attempted to extract the information that had eluded her all of last evening. Mr. Ellington and her mother had got on very well, to the extent that Marian had to oversee sending her younger brothers and sisters to bed. By the time she was ready to join them in the parlor, Mr. Ellington had politely bowed out and retired to Robert’s room, pleading the exhaustion of the journey.

  “Old would be the correct term, I should think, were it so. Bartholomew was married and had a child while I was still a young school girl. Such an imagination you have, dear. Your father was my only beau. Now do not beat that batter too hard, you will make it tough.”

  With that, she whisked out of the room, not to be seen again before Marian turned the cake over to the kitchen maid and prepared to leave on her round of morning visits. Wrapping warmly in a practical mantle of navy wool over a pale blue alpaca gown that successfully hid a flannel petticoat and muslin drawers, she lifted the basket of little gifts to her arm and was prepared to go out when Mr. Ellington appeared on the stairway.

  “Miss Chadwick, might I impose on you for a while this morning?”

  Marian turned to watch him approach, thinking he was quite the most elegant man she had ever met for all that he was dark and rather slender compared to the husky young men that she knew. For the first time she noticed that he held one knee stiffly but not so much as to be immediately apparent. He still wore the black band of mourning, but his informal sack coat was of a dark blue, and she smiled at the realization that their choice of colors seemed to be identical.

  “I am about to make my rounds of some of the elderly shut-ins, Mr. Ellington. They expect me at this time of the week and would be concerned were I late. Is it something I might do during the course of my visits, or can it wait until I return?”

  “I only meant to ask you to show me something of your town. I would be happy to accompany you, if you would not mind.” Despite the dreary practicality of her attire, she looked quite enchanting this morning, Alan decided. The thought caught him up abruptly, and he concentrated on pulling on his gloves.

  “It is more of a village than a town, sir, but I would be happy to show you about if you will not be too bored listening to the chatter of people who have too few listeners.”

  “I stand corrected. In America, we seldom have villages. Every settlement claims to be a town. And I understand you have a factory. I should think that would qualify you for town status.”

  He took her basket and assisted her down the front stairs to the drive. The gray clouds of the prior day had blown away, replaced by weak sunshine and a crisp breeze.

  “The factory is very small and is currently not in operation. Perhaps that is why Sedgwick Hall was closed. They must have invested considerable sums in the factory and all those warehouses along the river. And now they say trains will carry everything and the rivers and canals will go to waste.”

  Ellington glanced down at her with surprise, then up again to the walls of ugly brick behind the wooded property. “Those warehouses over there? Is that the river, then?”

  Marian followed his glance. “Yes. We once owned the land down to the river, but mother was forced to sell it after father died. And the land on the other side has always belonged to Sedgwick. The factory is much farther down, though. There are new little houses cropped up all around it for the workers. I suppose that’s the earl’s doing, also. I don’t suppose you know the earl, do you?”

  But Ellington’s mind had fastened on the factory, and he ignored the latter question. “We have factory towns in America. I trust these are a little better maintained. Most of ours are little more than slums.”

  Marian looked at him with curiosity. “You are from America, then? Your accent is nothing like Bernard’s cousin’s.” That certainly answered the question about his acquaintance with the earl. American cousins very seldom knew the families who stayed behind; the connection was much too distant.

  “My parents’ accents apparently stayed with me. Now I talk odd on two shores.”

  His smile gave her unexpected palpitations, and Marian looked hastily away. He seemed genuinely interested in the century-old cottages leading into the village, and she tried to behave as a lady ought. Perhaps this was a wealthy American cousin who might be interested in staying here and helping where his aristocratic relations would not.

  “You are still wearing mourning. Is it for one of your parents? Is that why you have returned here?”

  “My parents are still alive and well in Arizona Territory. My wife died almost a year ago, and my grandfather just recently. I think that is why I am here now. I don’t seem to have a home of my own any longer, and I thought perhaps I would see what there was of the ancestral lands. I had some business on the Continent and did some traveling, then thought to stop here for the holidays before returning to Arizona. I had a vague impression that these larger houses stayed open with a staff to oversee their upkeep even while their owners were away. That was a trifle foolish of me, I see now.”

  A man who was willing to admit to foolishness was one in a million, and Marian stared at him more openly.

  He did not seem to be aware of the unusualness of his statement. “Not so terribly foolish,” she reassured him. “The Hall has had a small staff until just a few weeks ago. Your timing was unfortunate. Here is Mrs. Jessie’s now. You might prefer to wander about while I go in and talk to her for a little while.”

  Ellington looked at the faded stone cottage with the murky panes and tiled roof and raised his hand to the knocker.

  In the end, the American accompanied Marian to every cottage, seeming to enjoy the reminiscences of the residents as much as they. It was easy enough to steer the conversation to the old days when the “family” was in residence, and Marian learned as much as her guest before the morning was out.

  “The earl must be quite elderly, then,” Marian mused as they carried the empty basket back toward the house and their noon meal. “I wonder where he stays? Probably in some much more modern house in London instead of the drafty old Hall. I’d heard he was in India, but I hadn’t realized he had taken part in the government during the French Revolution. That must put him in his seventies or more. I daresay he’s returned from India long since.”

  “I understand the climate in India is much different from here. Sometimes it is difficult to re-acclimate after so many years, particularly if one is very old. He might not have had as much to do with the changes at the Hall as you think.”

  Marian’s chin set determinedly. “It is his property and his responsibility. The village has always been dependent on the Hall. That is the only reason the village exists, and he should know that.”

  “Things are different in America. Towns crop up because everyone in the area needs them, not just because of one family. I had not realized how different things are here.”

  “How medieval?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm. “There are modern towns in England, great smoking, filthy stretches of factories and tiny houses. You might enjoy visiting some before you leave.”

  Ellington regarded her solemnly. “Factories are the way of the future. Why are you so set against them?”

  “They are inhumane!” she nearly shouted at him. “They employ young children and keep them bent over machines from sunrise to sunset instead of allowing them to grow up in sunshine and health. They are filthy, dark caverns where dangerous machines can yank off arms and mangle bodies. And after all that, they pay their employees barely enough to afford the rent on the pitiful housing they so thoughtfully provide. They are
a scourge and a blight on the face of the earth!”

  “I understand your fiancée died in an accident in one of them. Could that not color your opinion somewhat?”

  Marian glared at him with tears of betrayal rimming her eyes, before turning and marching off toward the house at a pace that slowly left Alan and his stiff leg behind.

  By the time he reached the house, she had already disappeared somewhere in the recesses, and he hung up his hat and removed his gloves under the undisguised interest of the tow-headed child he had observed under the stairway the day before. Remembering the appellation the vicar had given him on the prior day, Alan addressed him casually. “John, are you ready for Christmas yet?”

  Bright blue eyes met his solemnly, and the cherub’s head nodded slowly. Not having a great deal of experience with youngsters, his own sisters being only a few years younger than he, Alan wondered if all children were quite so silent as this one. He appeared to be four or five, well above the age of speech. Perhaps he was just shy.

  “Does Father Christmas visit here? What do you think he will bring you?”

  The boy smiled angelically, hugged himself and swayed back and forth, then scampered down the hall toward the kitchen stairs.

  “He never talks to strangers. He was just learning to speak when father died, and after that, he hardly said anything at all. But he knows how, when he wants.”

  The girl coming down the stairs resembled her sister in the most superficial ways such as hair coloring, but she had little of Marian’s sparkling vitality. The shadows under her eyes and the pale skin gave evidence of illness, and Alan surmised this was the one still recovering from influenza.