by Carla Kelly
“I just had a thought, Mrs. King,” Joe began. “Tell me how you feel about it. Hush, now, Abby! You may want to hear this, too.” He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Abby’s a grand girl in the kitchen with the pots and pans, but did you see how she handled that rolling pin yesterday?” He shook his head. “I’m not entirely certain, but it is possible that when my cook returns tomorrow, she just might be jealous of Abby. Where will I be then?”
“These are weighty problems, Joe,” Mr. King said, and there was no disguising the twinkle in his eyes. “You could find yourself without a cook, and forced to live on sausage and eggs.”
“… and wassail …” Josh interjected.
“… for a long time.” Mr. King cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to part with Abby?”
“Well, this is a consideration,” Joe said.
Mary looked from Joe to Mrs. King, whose eyes were alert now.
“We would give her such a home, Mr. Shepard,” the woman said. “I could certainly use the help, but more than that …” She stopped, unable to continue.
Joe didn’t seem to trust his voice, either, because he waited a long moment to continue. When he did, his voice sounded altered. “We could ask Abby what she thinks. Abby? Would you be willing to go home with the Kings?”
“You wouldn’t be angry with me, would you?” Abby asked.
“Not a bit! We would miss you, but I look on this as an opportunity for you.” Joe smiled at her. “I think you should do it.”
Mr. King looked at his wife. “Myrtle?”
“Oh, yes, let us do this,” Mrs. King said, her voice breathless, as if someone were hugging her tight. Her eyes clouded over for a moment. “Mr. King, I think we should return to Sheffield now, and forget Scarborough this year. I hope this does not disappoint you, but Abby must come first.”
“I agree, Mrs. K,” he replied. There was no disguising the relief in his voice, or the optimism.
Joe stood up. “I do have one condition: the three of you must return here for Christmas next year. I think we should make a tradition of it. What do you think, Mary?”
There he was, including her again. “I think it is a capital notion,” she said.
“Then we all agree,” Joe said. “Abby, Happy Christmas.”
T
The Kings and Abby left when the dishes were done, their driver smiling so broadly that Mary thought his face would surely split. Abby hugged Joe for a long moment then whispered, “Mr. Shepard, I think you should go to the workhouse and ask for Sally Bawn. She cried and cried when you picked me in September.”
“Sally Bawn, it is,” he said. “I will tell her she comes highly recommended.” He kissed her cheek and gave her a pat in the direction of the Kings. “That may be the wisest thing anyone ever did,” he said to no one in particular as the post chaise rolled south. “Mary, it’s your turn. Joshua, shall we take her to Muncie Farm?”
She blushed over the amount of luggage she had, but Joe got what he could into the spring wagon and assured her he would bring the rest tomorrow. Joshua climbed into the back, and he gave her a hand up onto the high seat. “Not exactly posh transportation,” he said in apology. “I could probably hire a post chaise, but I’d rather not trouble the innkeeper on Christmas.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted that, either,” she said, while he arranged a carriage robe over both of them. She knew she should keep it light, even though the familiar dread was returning. “After all, I am destined for a farm, and this will, in all likelihood, be the mode of transportation, will it not?”
Joe only smiled and spoke to the horses. She looked back at Joshua. “Are you entirely warm enough, my dear?” she asked.
He nodded, his eyes bright.
“I think it is awfully nice of Joshua to come along, especially when I suspect he wants to get back in your workshop,” she told Joe.
“He likes Muncie Farm,” Joe replied. The road was open, but narrow still with snow, and he concentrated on his driving.
Likes Muncie Farm? she asked herself. “He has been there before?” she asked.
“A time or two.”
He was grinning now, and she wanted to ask him more, to pelt him with questions, but he appeared to be more interested in staying on his side of the road than talking. I will keep my counsel, she thought. He has been so obliging to put up with a houseful of unwanted guests, and I should not pester him.
They had traveled on the road to York not more than an hour, when he turned the horses west onto a lane that had been shoveled quite efficiently. “Do the road crews come out here, too?” she asked, surprised to see the road cleared.
“No. Muncie Farm is rather well organized.”
She touched his shoulder and made him look at her when he started to chuckle. “Joe, are you practicing some great deception on me?”
He laughed out loud. “Just a little one, Mary, just a little one.” He pointed with his whip. “There. Take a look at your grandmother’s home.” He grinned at her. “And resist the urge to smite me, please.”
She looked; more than that, she stared, her mouth open. Located at the end of what by summer would probably be a handsome arch of trees, the farmhouse was a sturdy, three-storied manor of the fight gray stone common in the shire. The white shutters gleamed, and at each window she could see a flower box. The stone cornice over the double doors was even more imposing than the one Joe had commissioned for his house in Edgerly.
Barely able to contain himself, Joe pointed with his whip again. “See? Flower boxes already.” He dodged when she made a motion to strike him with her reticule. “Be careful, Mary. I am the only parent Joshua has!”
“You are a scoundrel,” she said with feeling. “You let me wallow in self-pity and … and … talk about learning to slop hogs and milk cows!”
He ducked again. “Do you have rocks in that reticule, my dear? I am certain that if you wished to slop the hogs, your grandmother would let you, although she might wonder why. Ow! Joshua, you could quit laughing and come to my defense!”
“You don’t deserve any such consideration, sir!” she said, then stopped when the door opened. “Oh, my.”
An older woman stood in the doorway. From her lace cap, to the Norwich shawl about her shoulders, to the cut of her dark dress, she was neat as a pin. Her back was straight, and she did not look much over sixty, if that. Mary looked closer, and then could not stop the tears that welled in her eyes. “Oh, Joe, I think I look a little like her,” she whispered.
“You look a great deal like her,” he whispered back, “but do you know, I didn’t really see it until you mentioned Muncie Farm yesterday. Strange how that is.”
Joe stopped the wagon in the well-graveled drive in front of the manor, leaped down, and held out his arms for her, his eyes bright with amusement. She sat there a moment more, watching as Joshua jumped from the back of the wagon and ran up the front steps. The woman hugged him, then kissed him and wished him Happy Christmas. “Your present is inside in the usual place, my dear,” she told him, and stepped aside as he hurried into the house.
“I really don’t understand what is going on,” Mary said, completely mystified.
“I think we can make this clearer, if you will let me help you down, Mary,” he said. This time there was compassion in his eyes. “Don’t be afraid.”
She did as he said. If she stood for a moment longer than necessary in the circle of his arms, she did not think he minded. He offered her his arm then, and they started up the short walk. “Mrs. Muncie, Happy Christmas to you!” he called. “I told you last week I would bring Josh over after Christmas dinner, but I have another guest. She was stranded at my house in all that snow, imagine that!” He stopped with her at the bottom of the steps. “May I introduce your granddaughter, Mary McIntyre?”
As Mary watched through a fog of her own, the woman began to cry. Mary released her death grip on Joe and ran up the steps. When the woman held out her arms, she rushed into the
m with a cry of her own. Mrs. Muncie’s grip was surprisingly strong. As Mary clung to her, she saw in her mind’s eye Abby clutched close to Mrs. King. Her heart spilled over with the sheer delight of coming home.
In another moment, Joe had his arms around both of them. “Ladies, do take your sensibilities inside. You know that Mr. Muncie would be growling about warming up the Great Plain of York, if he were still here.” He shepherded them inside. In another moment, a maid had Mary’s cloak in hand. Her bonnet already dangled down her back, relegated there by the tumult of her grandmother’s greeting. She stood still, sniffing back her tears as Joseph untied the ribbon from her neck and handed the bonnet to the maid, who curtsied and rushed off, probably to spread the news that something amazing was happening in the sitting room.
The sitting room was as elegant as her own favorite morning room at Denton. Mary looked around in great appreciation, and then at Joe, who continued to grin at her. She sat next to her grandmother on the sofa and reached for her hand again. “Mrs. Muncie, he let me believe that Muncie Farm was on the outer edges of barbarism. What a deceiver!”
“Yes, that is Joe,” she agreed. She laughed, and then dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “I tried to warn Melissa six years ago, but she thought he would do.” She smiled at Joe, and blew him a kiss. “And he did.”
Mary looked from one to the other. “I am beginning to suspect that an even greater deception has been practiced on me than I imagined! Will someone please tell me what is going on? Joshua, does your father run mad on a regular basis?”
From his spot on the floor where he had already opened his present—which looked like more tools—Joshua grinned at her. She felt her heart nearly stop as she took a closer look at him. “Oh, God,” she whispered, and reached for Joe’s hand, too. “Joe, don’t tease me anymore. Is Josh … oh, my stars … is he my nephew?”
He squeezed her hand, then put his arm around her. “That he is, Mary. Melissa’s first husband was Michael McIntyre, your mother’s younger brother.” He held up his free hand. “Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t know about the McIntyre name when I courted Melissa. It’s common enough in these parts, and I didn’t give it a thought when you were introduced to me as McIntyre.” He touched her forehead with his own. “There were hard feelings about your mother running away, and Michael had told Melissa next to nothing.” He looked at Mrs. Muncie. “He was younger, and he may not have known much. I never put your mother together with you until you mentioned Muncie Farm. And I can tell you don’t believe me. Help me, Mrs. Muncie!”
The woman laughed and touched Mary’s face. “Oh, my dear, he is a little innocent, or at least not as guilty as you would think. Yes, your name is McIntyre. I was married to Edward McIntyre, and had two children by him, Michael and Cynthia.”
“Cynthia,” Mary said. “In all this, no one ever told me her real name.”
Mrs. Muncie closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, my dear, all these years, all this sadness.” She opened her eyes. “Cynthia was a lovely girl, and such a brilliant seamstress. I suppose there was something in her that none of us truly understood.” She inclined her head toward Mary. “At any rate, when she was eighteen, and resisting a perfectly good marriage to a farmer, she and her father quarreled and she ran away.” She held her handkerchief to her eyes again. “I cannot tell you how I grieved, but there was never a word from her.”
“It is hard to take back harsh words,” Mary murmured.
“It is,” her grandmother agreed. “Edward McIntyre died two years after Cynthia … left us. I ran the farm by myself for a while, and two years later married a neighbor, Stephen Muncie, who owned this wonderful place. He absorbed the McIntyre farm, and adopted Michael, because he had no children of his own.”
“I only came into this district nine years ago, Mary, and I never knew Michael as a McIntyre,” Joe said. “He was killed in a farming accident, and after a few years, I married his widow.” He smiled. “And acquired Joshua, Melissa’s son. Lord, this is strange! Mary, you have a grandmother and a nephew, which makes you Joshua’s aunt, a closer relationship than I can claim with this lad I consider my own son.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to write the Kings and tell them about this.”
And there you are, including me, Mary thought. I like it. Overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure of it all, she looked from Joe, to her grandmother, to Joshua, who had turned his attention back to his present. She released her grip on Joe and took Mrs. Muncie by the hand. “Grandmama, may I stay here with you?” she asked. “I do not think now that I would be happy anywhere else.”
Mrs. Muncie embraced her. “This is your home.” She held herself off from Mary to look at her. “In fact, it probably will belong to you and Joshua some day, considering that you are my heirs.”
“I could even teach you how to milk,” Joe teased. “Used to do a lot of that at Denton. Lord, wouldn’t Thomas suffer palpitations if I actually mentioned that to anyone of his acquaintance!”
“What I expect you to do, dear sir, is find a way to come to terms with him,” Mary said. She looked at Mrs. Muncie. “Let us here be your cautionary tale. Life is too short to foul it with petty discord.”
“Your point is well taken,” he admitted. He rose then, and motioned to Joshua. “Son, we had better go home before it gets too dark and the wolves start howling.”
“Joe! Really!” Mrs. Muncie said. “Do you ever have a serious moment?”
“Plenty of them, madam,” he replied, “but maybe not on Christmas. Mary, I promise to bring the rest of your numerous trunks tomorrow.” He looked at Mrs. Muncie. “Do you want Joshua here for a couple of days?”
“Any time is fine with me … with us … Mrs. Muncie replied. She touched Mary’s hand. “My dear, you will see much of Joshua in the spring, when his father makes the rounds of his clients in the shire. Josh always stays with me then.”
As Mrs. Muncie summoned the housekeeper to make arrangements for Mary’s room, Mary walked Joseph and Joshua to the door. “What can I say?” she asked as Joshua scrambled up into the high seat of the wagon.
Joseph hugged her. “Just forgive me for not spilling out my suspicions and realizations sooner, Mary.”
“Sooner? Sooner?” she exclaimed. “You played that hand awfully close to your vest!”
He laughed and joined her nephew in the wagon. In another moment, they started down the lane. He looked back when they were near the end of the trees. On impulse, she blew him a kiss, then went up the steps and into the house again.
Mrs. Muncie was motioning to her on the stairs. She put her arm around her grandmother and walked up the steps with her, and into a room easily as beautiful as her old room at Denton.
Mrs. Muncie touched the bedspread. “I made this for your mother when she was five years old,” she said softly. She patted the pillow, then leaned against the mattress as though all her strength had left her. “When I first contacted Bow Street and told them to search for Cynthia McIntyre, I put this back on the bed. Oh, Mary, welcome home.”
Her heart full, Mary hugged her grandmother. “Happy Christmas, my dear,” she whispered.
She didn’t want the embrace to end, but her grandmother started to chuckle. “Oh, my dear,” she said finally, “you should be looking out the window right now from my vantage point. Better still, I think you should hurry down the stairs.”
Mary opened her eyes and turned around to see what was causing Mrs. Muncie so much amusement. “Why is he coming back?” she asked, and then she knew with all her heart just why. “Oh, excuse me,” she said as she started for the door.
“Here. Take my shawl. It’s December, remember, my dear?”
She snatched up her grandmother’s shawl and swirled it around her shoulders as she hurried down the stairs. She flung open the door, then closed it quickly, remembering the late Mr. Muncie’s admonition about heating all of Yorkshire. Joe was out of the wagon seat, and she was in his arms before she had time to clear the last step. With a shaky l
augh, he took her down the last step and held her off from him for a moment.
“I’m perfectly sober, Mary McIntyre,” he warned her. “I’m really going to mean it this time. Did you just blow me a kiss?”
“Only because you were too far away,” she replied. It must have been the right answer, because he kissed her soundly, thoroughly, and completely at her grandmother’s front door. He held her close then, and she wrapped Mrs. Muncie’s shawl around both of them.
“Poor Mrs. Muncie,” he murmured in her ear. “I mean, what kind of a common scoundrel and skirt raiser would take away her granddaughter so soon?”
“You would, my love,” she whispered.
REGENCY CHRISTMAS GIFTS
The Lasting Gift
PROLOGUE
U
“Suzie, I am bored.”
There. He’d admitted it. Maybe if the house Thomas Jenkins had purchased here in Plymouth, England, had been in dire need of renovation, it would have kept him busy for a year. But no, the prospect of moving into a wreck had no appeal. Besides, Thomas could afford to be overcharged for a pastel-blue row house with white shutters located north of the Barbican on Notte Street. Once the carter had delivered Suzie’s furniture all the way from Cardiff, Wales, and he had added his paltry bed and favorite chair, what else was there to do?
Convincing his sister to quit Cardiff had taken up several months of his time and involved diplomacy worthy of Talleyrand at the Congress of Vienna. As little brother, Thomas Jenkins (sailing master retired, Royal Navy) had no bargaining chips except one, which he hated to play. He had played it at last, when the matter seemed in some doubt and he had no choice.
He even remembered the date: November 4, 1816. For six months he had been cooling his heels at the Drake in Plymouth, sending his widowed sister letter after letter, cajoling her to leave her little place in Cardiff and move in with him in the house he was about to purchase. He wheedled; she wavered. He put down his foot; she played the older sister card and ignored him. There seemed to be no end to her evasion.
