Love Under the Christmas Tree

by Conner, Jennifer

  “Excellent!” Mr. Clark declared, opening the folder and taking out a large sheaf of papers. “Here are your scenes. We have a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock and Sunday afternoon as well. I know that St. Martin in the Pines is not the most elegant church in the parish, but it does boast a very large stage in the Parish Hall, with plenty of room behind it for actors to wait and props to be stored and—”

  “And where you are the rector,” Holly said as she took the papers. Her fingertips grazed his, sending a jolt of warmth up her arm.

  “Well, yes,” he said, a note of mock solemnity entering his voice. “There is that.”

  They shared a laugh. He had a nice laugh, not too loud, and one that brought a light to his eyes. Miss Jane Austen should have mentioned that men too could have “very fine eyes.”

  “So.” Holly picked up her pen. “As to the letter Celeste mentioned you needed?”

  His cheerful expression changed to one of such solemnity that Holly nearly gasped aloud as she watched the light fade from his eyes. “Ah, yes,” he said after a long moment. “That is to say—”

  If she were not sure of his confidence in all matters, Holly would swear he was nervous. “Do go on,” she urged.

  “It is a matter of the utmost delicacy,” he began. “I rely on your total discretion.”

  “You have it,” Holly said. “I could not have developed my clientele otherwise. And I do help people frame their thoughts. Their words are their own, with some help.”

  “I have a friend who desires to make his affection known to a lady of his acquaintance,” Mr. Clarkson said slowly. “He is a rather shy fellow, and his handwriting at best is—is—”

  “Illegible?” Holly prompted.

  “More like hieroglyphics,” he corrected ruefully. “Deciphering his correspondence is a near impossible task. He is rather good with words but needs a scribe to write them down on paper. I understand you often write letters for those who have not the knowledge or the skill?”

  “I do help those who need to have letters written or read, sometimes to family and sometimes ones of business. And if I can help in matters of the heart, so much the better.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, as if considering her words. “And your father does not object to your working?”

  “Papa has always remembered how his own grandfather could not read or write,” Holly said wistfully. “And yet it did not stop him from opening the first tobacco and candy shops that carry our name to this day.”

  “Who in London does not know of Chamberlain’s Sweets and Tobacco?” Mr. Clark struck a pose.”’ A smoke for every taste and a sweet for every tooth.’“

  Holly laughed as he quoted the Chamberlain’s slogan. “Papa agreed with my desire to honor great—grandfather’s memory by offering the help to others that he did not have.”

  “You have a generous heart, Miss Chamberlain,” Mr. Clark said gently. “Not many young ladies would do what you do.”

  “Well, since my sewing and knitting skills are non—existent, I can hardly make garments for the poor.” Holly pulled an expression of mock resignation. “Now, back to the business at hand. “Why does your friend not simply come and ask me himself to write the letters?”

  “As I have said, he is a shy man who prefers to keep his personal affairs as private as possible. And so he has engaged me to acquire your services. I would write them myself, but my own handwriting is at times poor, and my friend desires the script to be as beautiful as the receiver of the letter.”

  And because I haven’t the guts to tell you myself that I love and adore you above all women. I only hope I can screw up the courage to give you the letters. Grayson tried hard not to stare at the brunette beauty who haunted his every waking moment and nearly as much as his sleeping ones. A lone drop of perspiration crept down his neck and then his back. Thank goodness his wardrobe was full of freshly laundered shirts and collars.

  She lowered her gaze and seemed to be studying the desk’s polished surface from beneath her long lashes. Then she looked up, and her chocolate -colored eyes twinkled at him.

  “You’re his Miles Standish, aren’t you? Or perhaps his Cyrano de Bergerac?” She cocked her head in study of him and added, “But without the nose of course.”

  A laugh escaped him and he said, “No, thank goodness for that.”

  She joined his laughter, a light, sparkling sound and a tiny ray of hope sparked in his heart. Perhaps there might be hope for him after all.

  “Well,” the object stuff of his dreams said, pulling a single sheet of paper towards her from the stack on the edge of her desk. “Shall we begin?”

  Grayson cleared his throat. “Very well.” He reached into an inner coat pocket, took out a folded sheet of paper and held it up. “I took the liberty of having him dictate his letter to me.”

  “A wise idea,” Miss Chamberlain affirmed with a nod.

  “Perhaps I should read it aloud first, so you will understand the flow of his language?”

  She nodded again and Grayson unfolded the sheet, staring hard at the penmanship that had been the despair of his instructors at Oxford. “Since the moment of our first meeting, you have stirred my heart,” he read aloud. “Such beauty, grace and gentleness combined is a rare treasure, one I could hardly dream of one day having as my own. No man could deserve such a treasure, but men will dream, and often of that which they cannot have. I am such a man. I hope that you may consider me a dear friend, and will one day consider me more. Your devoted servant—” Grayson stopped and looked at Miss Chamberlain. “That’s all,” he said.

  “How very eloquent,” she said softly. “The lady your friend wishes to impress will undoubtedly be moved.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I have no doubt. Now if you will read it to me again, slowly so I can—”

  The door banged opened and Theodore Barrett, stepped into the room, exuding the confidence Grayson so envied. Well—tailored and well-shod, he carried the air of a man who always gets what he wants.

  And he, no doubt, like Grayson, very much wanted Miss Holly Chamberlain’s attention and affections.

  “Good afternoon, Holly,” he said. “Your father has sent me ‘round to fetch you home to supper.” His blue eyes flickered in Grayson’s direction. “Hello, Grayson,” he greeted. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Theodore.” Grayson clipped off the word.

  “Mr. Clark is here on a mission for a friend,” Miss Chamberlain told him. “You and Papa will have to wait.”

  Theodore affected a deep sigh. “If I must. Is there any tea to be had?”

  “You’ll have to ask Celeste,” was her reply. “Run along now. Mr. Clark and I have business to finish.”

  She waved in dismissal, and with another sigh, Theodore withdrew and closed the door behind him. “Celeste?” they heard him call. “Is there tea? Be a good girl and fetch me a cup.”

  Grayson noted the slight frown drawing Miss Chamberlain’s eyebrows together. “He seems very confident in his expectations of getting what he wants,” he said.

  She spread her hands. “Theodore is a barrister,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “Ah,” Grayson said, his heart sinking. How could a mere clergyman, even one with a small private income, compete with a barrister’s eloquence? Then he forced a smile and said, “I don’t want to keep you from your father. Shall we finish my friend’s letter?”

  “Most certainly,” she said, reaching for a pen. “I believe it began, ‘since the moment of our first meeting…’“

  Too soon they had finished, and after allowing enough time for the ink to dry, Miss Chamberlain handed it to Grayson. Her fingertips grazed his, and unexpected, but not unwelcome heat jolted up his arm.

  “There you are, Mr. Clark,” she said. “Is that all?”

  Grayson’ s thoughts whirled like mad. “Actually, I believe my friend may want more than one letter. But he wants to know the lady’s reaction before he procee
ds. Do you require payment now or later?”

  Her brown eyes sparkled. “Let’s wait until we know what the lady thinks,” she suggested. “And how could I not trust such an honest courier?”

  The door opened again to show Theodore carrying a large tray with a pot of tea, and two cups.

  Two. Grayson might not be a barrister, but he knew when to take a hint. He placed the precious letter in the folder, stood, and inclined his head. “I will convey this letter to my friend with all speed,” he said. “Thank you for your help, Miss Chamberlain. Good day to you. I expect I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow afternoon, Theodore?”

  Barrett’s dark eyebrows rose as if in surprise at such a question. “Since I’m playing Scrooge, of course you will.”

  “Have you finished memorizing your lines for Act Two?” A most un—clergy like feeling of smug satisfaction surged through Grayson as he recalled how the barrister had struggled at last week’s rehearsal.

  “Very nearly,” Theodore said loftily. “I’ll be ready by tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Grayson stood. “I’ll let Miss Chamberlain tell you her news. Give my best to your father, Miss Chamberlain.”

  He left, and a moment later, the bell over the front door jingled in departure. Theo set the tray on Holly’s desk and raised his eyebrows. “What news do you have for me?”

  “Matthew Timmons sent Mr. Clark to ask me to play Mrs. Crachit in St. Martin’s production of A Christmas Carol ,” Holly explained, filling their cups with a steaming Darjeeling.

  “Why, that’s splendid,” Theo declared. “And perhaps you can help me finish memorizing my lines after dinner tonight? I can hardly fail with so charming a coach.”

  “If you like,” Holly said. How hard could it be for a man in love with the sound of his own voice to memorize lines for a play?

  Chapter Two

  Grayson made his way down the street, hands jammed in his coat pockets. The thought of being on stage with Holly Chamberlain should make him the happiest of men.

  And few, if any of their scenes, would include the insufferable Theodore Barrett. Grayson wouldn’t mind calling up a ghost or two to frighten the barrister right out of London.

  The wind picked up and he pulled his coat more tightly about him. In spite of its only being half past four in the afternoon, the electric streetlights already glimmered overhead, casting a golden glow onto the streets below. People hurried by, some carrying bags no doubt filled with early Christmas gifts.

  Christmas gifts. Grayson slowed his walk to examine the decorated shop windows. He needed to find gifts for his younger brother and sisters at home in Kent. With his salary—not to mention the recent legacy a distant relative had left each of them—the cost of the purchases was not a problem. It was buying for his notoriously choosy three younger sisters— Rebecca, Marian, and Sus annah— that took so much time. At least his brother, Hugh would be happy with a new cricket bat. He turned down Chestnut Street to start his search.

  Bright jewel tones in cobalt and amethyst from bolts of silk artfully draped over the shelves in a shop window stopped Grayson’s progress. Christmas ornaments shimmered from a decorated tree on a pedestal and a set of foot-high carved wooden soldiers faced each other, ready for battle. A quick glance at the sign overhead showed this establishment to be Harrell’s Fine Gifts. Another blast of cold wind sent Grayson hurrying inside.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” A plump, pretty woma n with bright blonde hair called from behind the front counter. “Welcome to Harrell’s Fine Gifts. How may I serve you today?”

  “I’m looking for Christmas gifts for my siblings,” Grayson said, returning her smile.

  “We carry many lovely items, sir, for all tastes and pocketbooks,” the woman told him. “I’m Mrs. Harrell. Is there anything in particular you wanted to find?”

  “I’m not sure,” Grayson admitted. “This is my first day of shopping.”

  “Might I suggest a new Christmas stocking to begin, sir?” Mrs. Harrell pointed at a mock mantle from where a long row of stockings hung, each with a large elaborately embroidered initial.

  “Those are very nice,” Grayson said, walking across the room to examine them. “Do you have them in all letters?”

  “Bless you, sir, yes! They’re one of our most popular items. I’ve got girls who work on them almost all year ‘round . People start placing orders as early as February, ‘specially if they want the one with more detailed work.”

  “I think that would make a good start.” Grayson returned to the counter and took out his wallet. “I need four, with the letters, M, H, R, and S. Ones like you have over there will do just fine.”

  Mrs. Harrell rang a bell on the counter and a girl came from behind a curtain. Mrs. Harrell gave her Grayson’s order and she departed, returning several minutes later with a stack of brightly wrapped flat boxes. She gave them to Mrs. Harrell, smiled at Grayson and disappeared again behind the curtain.

  “That will be two pounds, sir,” Mrs. Harrell said as she put the boxes into a sack. “That may seem a bit much, but I want to pay the girls well, and it helps pay for the wrapping paper.” She winked and said, “No offense, sir, but I’ve never found a man who could wrap a package well. He might be able to cut up a Christmas goose like a surgeon, but he’s all thumbs when it comes to wrapping a present.”

  “And to that I say, amen!” Grayson paid her, put away his wallet and took the gifts from her. “I wish you a good afternoon.”

  “Thank you sir. Come again. We’re open until ten on Christmas Eve.”

  Grayson exited the shop, found an omnibus and rode it back to St. Martin’s. Mrs. Ramsey his housekeeper, was waiting in the front hall of the rectory.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ramsey.” Grayson shrugged out of his coat, took off his hat and hung them on the hall tree in the corner. “May I trouble you for a cup of tea? It’s brisk outside.”

  “You have a visitor,” she answered, her hands firmly planted on her broad hips. “It’s himself. I’ve put him in the parlor.” Irritation replaced her usual cherry tone.

  Grayson withheld his sigh of impatience. “Tobias Small?”

  Her frown was deep enough for both of them. “The same.”

  Grayson forced his features into a mask of neutrality at the mention of the austere and stern man that was St. Martin’s former rector. Despite his retirement three years ago, Tobias Small continued to “drop by” St. Martin’s regularly to “check on things.” That he was good friends with Cyrus Honeywell, the senior warden, did not make things any easier. Grayson had no doubt the two men got together for a good chinwag more often than half the matrons in St. Martin’s choir, and that he was the chief source of their gossip.

  “Indeed?” Grayson gave her the bag from Harrell’s. “Well, then you’d best bring in tea with all possible speed.”

  “It’s already there.” Mrs. Ramsey cocked her head at the door. “Best hurry.”

  Nodding in silent agreement, Grayson hurried to the parlor. Behind its oak door, a silver—haired man stood before the fireplace, cup already in hand. He stared at Grayson and frowned. . “Mr. Clark,” he said, the chill in his voice matching the one in his dark eyes.

  “Mr. Small,” Grayson returned, forcing his legs to travel slowly across the room.

  He, after all, was now rector of St. Martin in the Pines. Grayson stopped to pour a cup of tea and noted with quiet delight that Mrs. Ramsey had not sent in any cakes or scones. He allowed himself a moment to take several sips before asking, “How may I help you?”

  The older man barely hid his scowl. “I’ve come to discuss a matter of some importance with you concerning St. Martin’s. May we sit?”

  “Certainly.” Grayson waited until the older man sat in the room’s best chair before choosing the one opposite. “Again, how may I help you?”

  “You are no doubt aware that St. Martin’s is in need of a new roof.” Small’s tone suggested that Grayson was somehow responsible for the problem.

  “Yes,
and we have been trying to raise funds to replace, or at least repair it,” Grayson said. “But times are hard for some of our folk. And what with Christmas approaching, they will be wanting to save for their families.”

  Something resembling a smile threatened to raise the corners of Mr. Small’s thin lips. “Well, I think I may know of a solution.”

  “I’d be delighted if you would share it with me.” At least Grayson was not stretching the truth when he said that.

  “I have heard from more than one source that Miss Priscilla Honeywell is fond of you,” Mr. Small said. “Perhaps I should say very fond of you.”

  Good Heavens! Grayson swallowed the words before he choked on them. “And what does this have to do with St. Martin’s roof?”

  The almost smile broadened a fraction. “Miss Honeywell’s grandfather, Sir Cyrus Honeywell has suggested to me that any particular attention to her from you could result in a generous donation to St. Martin’s, if you know what I mean.”

  So it hadn’t been Grayson’s imagination. The porcelain skinned beauty’s dainty but obvious flattery had been flirtation! Clearing his throat, Grayson asked, “Are you saying that any attentions I pay to Miss Honeywell might—”

  “Will, my boy, will.” Condescension fairly dripped from Small’s voice. “Mr. Honeywell is determined that if it is within his power, he will get his granddaughter whatever she wants. And she is, I believe, in St. Martin’s cast of A Christmas Carol?

  You know that she is, you old busybody. Grayson nodded.

  “Well, there you have it. Just turn on that charm you used to get the Altar Guild to sew new linens for us instead of us having to buy them , and we’ll have a new roof by Easter.” Small moved his glance from Grayson’s face to the tea tray with its lack of food and his frown returned.

  “I’ll give it serious consideration, sir,” Grayson said, hoping his grip on the teacup didn’t result in the handle breaking. About thirty seconds worth.

  “See that you do.” Small got to his feet, put his cup on a nearby table and crossed the room to open the door. “Mrs. Ramsey?” he called. “My coat and hat if you please.”