This time, the queer feeling suffused every particle of Frederick’s being. “You’re offering me Bickerman’s position?”
“I was inclined in that direction, and then Lord Westhaven professed himself so very impressed with you. Said he had to argue with you over a penny fare, and you were nigh beside yourself over being a few minutes late—when Bickerman can’t be bothered to come in of an entire Saturday. I’ve also seen that the other fellows like you, and you write to your mama weekly—which is a recommendation in itself. Yes, I’m offering you the position, and I doubt it will be the last time you distinguish yourself through hard work and probity.”
An angel chorus could not have sounded more pleasing to Frederick’s ear than old North’s imperious blather.
“I would like to accept the position, sir, truly I would, but there’s somebody I have to speak with first.”
The horses slowed, and Frederick realized he was going to have to face the chilly night once more, but when had a braw, handsome young man from Aberdeen ever taken issue with a little fresh air?
“Think it over, then, and we’ll not expect you first thing tomorrow. A fellow needs his rest if he’s considering momentous decisions.”
Frederick thanked North for the offer, for the ride home, and for sorting letters with him—each in itself no small gift—and sought his bed. Possibilities came to bed with him, and made sleep elusive. On a supervisor’s salary, he could afford a small house.
On a supervisor’s salary, he could afford to send a bit more home.
On a supervisor’s salary, he could afford a wife, though there was only one candidate for that post, and Frederick intended to track her down the very next morning.
***
“Sir, I tell you she’s not at home.”
The Wicklebleck butler had never struck Frederick as a finicky fellow, but moving to Mayfair had apparently effected a change—and not for the better.
“It’s early, Mims. Too early for social calls, I know that, but it’s urgent that I speak with Miss Winklebleck.”
Mims was old, the sort of old that can look the same—bald, dignified, trim—for twenty years at a go. He regarded Frederick out of his old eyes, then glanced around the foyer, which was festooned with greenery.
“She went out, Mr. MacIntyre. I know not where, or when she’ll be back, but she’s genuinely not at this address. She slipped out quite early, and I gather her departure was intended to be somewhat clandestine.”
Mims should not have told him that, which Frederick tried to regard as a concession, not a crumb of pity. “You will tell her I called?”
A proper gentleman would leave a card, but Frederick hadn’t wanted to spare the coin to have any printed.
“I will tell her myself. I suggest you take yourself off before Mr. Winklebleck should arise.”
Another concession, and a valid warning. “Good day, then, and Happy Christmas, Mims.”
He’d surprised Mims into smiling. “Happy Christmas, sir.”
Frederick had already paced up and down the block, examining the Winklebleck house from every angle. The façade was the same as its neighbors on either side, the walkway swept free of snow, a holly wreath on the door. He had no justification for tarrying, and he was already late for work.
The walk across town was… pretty, the fresh snow hiding a world of mud, and putting smiles on the faces of those braving the early morning air. London wasn’t Aberdeen, but neither did it lack for some charm.
Lizzie lived here, that was charm enough for any city. Or it would be if she’d have him for a husband.
If she wouldn’t, then darkest Peru might not be a distant enough posting. Frederick’s sense of wellbeing faded further as he approached his place of employment, for there stood Bickerman on the front steps, arguing with a woman in a deep purple dress.
“This is a proper place of business, I’ll have you know. I cannot indulge the fancies of a woman who seeks to accost my employees when about their labors. You will be on your way, madam, before I call the watch to remove you.”
The lady’s back was to Frederick, a straight, elegant back. “At least confirm that he still works here,” she said, her tone very severe, “or I will have words with your direct superior, sir. It’s urgent that I speak with Mr. MacIntyre.”
“Lizzie.” Frederick said her name softly, not so much to get her attention, as to enjoy the pleasure of speaking it.
“In a moment,” she said without turning. “You will also please deliver a message to Mr. MacIntyre, sir. You will tell him Elizabeth Winklebleck loves him, and wants to marry him. He hasn’t heard from me, you see, and being a man he will have gotten all manner of wrong-headed notions, though I do love him. I love him to distraction, and I miss him. You will tell him this.”
Bickerman’s scowl faltered. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it.
“It’s urgent,” Lizzie said, and Frederick heard tears in her voice. “The most urgent communication I’ve ever attempted.”
There on the front steps of a dignified a place of business, before all the passersby, Lizzie, Frederick, and even before Mr. North, who was getting out of his carriage, Bickerman smiled. “Tell him yourself, young lady.”
He pointed to Frederick, standing not three yards away from Lizzie, and grinning like a baboon.
“Frederick?” She wiped at her cheeks with her gloves, and Frederick opened his arms.
“Happy Christmas, Lizzie. I’ve been looking all over Town for you.”
She pelted into his chest with a good solid thud, rather like the good, solid thud Frederick had felt in his chest the first time he’d seen her sharing a hymnal with her sister.
“Frederick, I’ve missed you so! I’ve missed you and missed you, and I should have come here much sooner, but I’d forgotten I knew this, and it isn’t the done thing, and oh, I’ve missed you.”
“I couldn’t find you,” Frederick said, breathing through his nose just to catch the rosy scent of her. “I asked the pastor, I tramped all over Mayfair, I watched the Sunday church parade in the park each weekend. I couldn’t find you.”
“You’ve found me now, and I’m not letting you go.”
She wasn’t, either, she was bundled into his arms, there for the world to see. Over her head, Frederick saw a smiling Mr. North leading Bickerman into the building, but against the window, a horde of sorting clerks was grinning down at him, Tims included.
“You have to let me go, Lizzie.”
“Never.”
And wasn’t that just the best answer. “You have to let me go as far as my knees.”
Comprehension dawned in her eyes, their sparkle became luminous. “Only as far as your knees, Frederick, and only for a moment.”
He went down on one knee, took her gloved hand in his bare grasp, and felt his heart soaring. “Miss Lizzie Winklebleck, will you make the happiest of Christmas memories with me, and agree to be the wife of the newest postal supervisor to serve the king’s mail at the Greater Uppington sorting station?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, I shall, and you will make the happiest of Christmas memories with me as well.”
The clerks clapped and whistled, Frederick sprang to his feet, and Mr. North appeared on the office steps. “I gather there’s good news all around. Well, come in and introduce your lady to the fellows who’ll be working for you. The missus sent over a bowl of wassail so we might toast Bickerman on his way, but this makes the occasion doubly fine.”
“I haven’t spoken to the lady’s father, sir,” Frederick said.
“A detail, from the looks of things. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
North winked at Frederick, and as it turned out, the fellow was right. Lizzie’s father accepted his new son-in-law graciously, if gruffly. When the first grandchild came along the next Christmas, a wee dark-haired girl named Anna, the doting grandparents made a gift of a modest horse and carriage to the happy couple.
As Frederick drove his equipage to and from work, even when h
e was a dignified old fellow superintending several busy offices, he always kept a lookout for a lean, young fellow with no gloves, one who might need a kind word, or a short respite from the elements in the cozy confines of the Christmas carriage.
**
Author’s Note
My parents separated at one point in their dating, and lost track of each other, thinking their problems insurmountable. Absence, however, worked its magic on them both.
When my dad called for my mom at her parents’ house, she never answered the phone, and he was always told she wasn’t there. He’d almost given up when he took a holiday job at the post office, and saw a letter go by addressed to his lady love at the nurses’ training program where she was studying. Over Christmas, Mom’s little sister told her that her long lost swain had been calling and calling….
Dad wrote to her at her school, a letter of such contrition and charm that they got back together, and within six months were married. Their little holiday miracle still makes them smile, sixty-five years and seven children later.
Hoping all your days are filled with smiles and miracles…
—Grace Burrowes
The Christmas Carriage Page 3
