by Karen Hall
But Robbie had sent ’round a note to Mr. Hollingsworth’s chambers, and more out of fear he would show up there, George had agreed to meet with him here. Robbie was the only one who knew of George’s recent gambling problem and had paid off his debts. George was almost done paying Robbie back, but he wouldn’t put it past Robbie to tell his employer about it if he thought he could get more money by threatening to do just that. The old unease started its familiar crawl down George’s back as Robbie ambled toward the table.
“Hello, George,” Robbie greeted. Grabbing a wooden chair from a nearby empty table, he pulled it to the booth and straddled it. “Glad you could make it.”
“I got your note,” George said, filling the empty mug on the table from the pitcher before refilling his own. “You said it was important?”
“Ah, don’t play the fool with me, Georgie boy,” Robbie said, lighting up a particularly foul smelling cheroot. “After the story in this morning’s Times, why do you think I’d want to see you? Other than we’re brothers, that is?”
Half-brothers, you mean. “Because Daniel Hollingsworth announced he plans on running for the Commons next year?” George guessed. “If that’s what you wanted, you’re wasting your time. I don’t know any more than you do except Thomas McCracken is going to run against him. Did you see that one-page Times newssheet?”
“Yeah, but you’re Hollingsworth’s personal secretary,” Robbie corrected, blowing out a stream of smoke. “You’re gonna know heaps more after Christmas. Don’t you have anything for me now?” Robbie worked for The Daily Grind as a court reporter and artist, which is why he probably chose The Black Dog for their meeting. The Daily Grind specialized in reporting the more lurid details of London’s most spectacular crimes.
George sipped his ale. Sometimes Robbie was a bit too smug, but this time George had his own card to play. “Well, there’s something,” he said. “But promise you won’t lose your temper and cause a scene.” George hated scenes.
Robbie snorted. “What do you think I am, a sissy boy who gets his knickers in a twist over nothing? Give it up, Georgie-boy.”
His brother’s use of George’s school moniker stopped any consideration he had for sparing Robbie’s feelings. “Tabitha Goforth is taking an interest in Hollingsworth’s campaign. He’s seen her twice in two days.”
Robbie’s pupils became tiny pinpoints as he stubbed out his cheroot in the ashtray. He took a long swallow of ale, sat back, and wiped his mouth with his hand. “Has he, now?”
A satisfied feeling warmed George. “She came by his chambers yesterday morning, and then he spent part of this afternoon at the school where one of her daughters teaches.”
An ugly leer crossed Robbie’s face. Tabitha Goforth had dismissed him from the staff of The Clarion three years ago with only the barest of references after he’d written several articles without verifying the facts. It took more than a year for him to find any kind of newspaper job other than writing obituaries or wedding announcements. He’d finally found work at The Daily Grind, which actually suited him quite well. Robbie’s flair for the gruesome had made him a celebrity in some circles and because of the newspaper’s popularity, earned him a modest living, giving him enough to pay his bills and have a bit left over. He could also claim a friendship—however tenuous—with dozens of petty thieves, small time grifters and con-artists.
But he still held a grudge against Tabitha Goforth. One he often told George he’d pay her back no matter how long it took.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Robbie said at last. “Politics always makes for interesting reading.”
“You won’t find any dirt on Daniel Hollingsworth if that’s what you’re thinking, because there isn’t any,” George warned. “He’s got sympathy on his side because of his wife dying so suddenly during his last campaign. Nigel ‘Kingmaker’ Davenport will be his campaign manager, so you can bet everything will be neat and tidy.”
A burst of laughter from the far side of the pub pulled Robbie’s attention away to regard the small group of men and women gathered around a table. He peered through the smoke and abruptly turned, pulled down his flat cap, and turned up his collar until it nearly covered his face. “Well, hang me for a pirate,” he said. “It’s Hilda Peters, in the flesh. When did she get out of jail?”
“What are you talking about?” George demanded.
“That girl over there in the flowered hat.” Robbie gestured in the direction of a tall young woman seated among the laughing folks. “I covered her trial a year ago. She got sent to prison for getting into a fight with some girl. Broke the girl’s nose, she did. Got sentenced to fifteen months for assault. I wonder what she’s doing out of jail already.”
“Perhaps they let her out for Christmas,” George suggested, wanting this conversation to end as quickly as possible. “Or she behaved herself well enough they let her out early.”
Robbie snorted. “Judges are getting soft when it comes to criminals these days if you ask me. And take a look at that hat, will you. That hat didn’t come from a second-hand shop. She’s got some kind of well-paying job, but who’d hire a thief?”
Robbie’s interest in the girl only added to George’s discomfort. “I need to go, Robbie.”
A crafty smile, another remnant from their childhood, crept over Robbie’s face. “Sure you do,” he agreed. “After you do me a little favor.”
George’s grip on his mug tightened. “What is it?”
“Hilda Peters knows me on sight,” Robbie said. “I sat in the front row of the courtroom every day when she was being tried. I heard she threatened to break my fingers ‘cause of that caricature I did of her along with my story. Made her look uglier than she already is. But I want to know where she’s living and if and where she’s working. I don’t want her to see me, so you’re going to follow her and find that out for me.”
“No, I’m not,” George protested. “I don’t want any part of your muck-racking.”
Robbie’s smile broadened. “Oh, I think you will,” he said, “unless you want me to pay a little visit to Mr. Daniel Hollingsworth to share news about your recent problem at those cock-fights and the money you lost. ‘Course I won’t mention I loaned you the money to pay back that loan shark you borrowed it from in the first place. Everyone in legal London knows Hollingsworth would never hire anyone doing something like betting on a cock-fight, and getting in debt over it, so I guess if you want to keep your job here at Christmas time, you’ll help me out. Looks likes the party over there is breaking up. Run along now, Georgie boy. I’ll catch you later.”
Fury surged through George as Robbie filled his mug again, but he had no choice but to slowly rise and follow the departing Hilda Peters and her friends out of the pub and into the dark December night.
The Next Morning. Offices of The Clarion
“Good heavens!” Still wearing her coat and hat, Elizabeth stared open-mouthed at the enormous spray of yellow roses rising from the vase on the worktable behind Tabitha’s desk. “Did Henry finally declare his passion for you? Shall we have a Christmas wedding after all?”
Her hands locked in a tight grip, Tabitha silently commanded herself not to blush. “They’re not from Henry,” she admitted.
“So you have another admirer you’ve not told us about?” Elizabeth demanded. “I simply refuse to go to work until you tell me who sent those beauties. A dozen yellow roses just before Christmas! They must have cost a fortune!”
“They’re an apology wrapped up as a peace offering from Daniel Hollingsworth.” Tabitha waited for Elizabeth’s angry outburst.
Instead, Elizabeth groped for the back of the chair facing Tabitha’s desk, and plopped into it with a less than lady-like grace. “Daniel Hollingsworth?” she squeaked in a most un-Elizabeth like way. “Why—”
“Why did he send me roses?” Tabitha released a sigh that did nothing to relieve the anxiety that had circled her heart since the flowers’ arrival earlier this morning. “As I said, ‘an apology wrapped
up in a peace offering.’ Our departure at Clara’s school yesterday was not on the best of terms. We ‘had words,’ as you young people say these days, and not exactly complimentary ones. I suppose he felt guilty.”
Elizabeth frowned and Tabitha hastened to describe her parting conversation with the barrister. “I suppose he recalled some of the articles The Clarion printed about him during his first campaign,” she said “ I took special issue with him over women’s suffrage back then, but that was right after your father died, so perhaps I was less diplomatic in my phrasing. But I really wasn’t attending to things the way I should have, especially over politics.”
“None of us were, Mother.” Tears trembled on Elizabeth’s eyelashes. “Even after all this time, some days I expect Father to come striding through the door, smelling of pipe tobacco and bearing meat pies from Willie the vendor who works just off Westminster Bridge. I miss him even more at Christmas.”
“I know, my dear,” Tabitha said softly. “Your father was a treasure. I miss the choosing of the tree, the hanging of the holly and the garland, and preparing the fruitcakes with him.”
Elizabeth sniffed. “Well, at least Daniel Hollingsworth had the sense to send an apology.” She seemed determined not give him the honorific of “Mister”. Taking out a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes. “If Henry Lyons knew Hollingsworth was sending you flowers he might pursue you with more ardor. A Christmas wedding would be so lovely.”
“You have been reading Emma again,” Tabitha said, repeating her accusation from the other day. “And I thought Clara was the more romantic of the two of you. But your plans for matchmaking are too late, my dear. Henry Lyons is engaged now, Elizabeth. Or he will be if the lady in question finds him agreeable as a husband and accepts his offer of marriage.”
“What?” Elizabeth’s mouth fell open again. “To whom?”
“Does it matter?” Tabitha shrugged. “He came by very early this morning, knowing I would be here and said that’s why he wanted to call on me the other night and tell me in person. He wanted me to know he’d finally found someone to love again and who loved him in return and that after giving it long thought, marrying his best friend’s widow just didn’t feel right. That your father’s spirit would always be between us and he could never hope to compete with it. So rather than summoning up your father’s shade for a consultation, I wished Henry well and said I hoped he’d send me an invitation to the wedding. “
“Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said. “Even though I know I’ll never marry, I wish things could have turned out differently for you and Henry.”
“Don’t be,” Tabitha said. “Henry and I were friends, never anything more. And to paraphrase Clara’s beloved Jane Austen, ‘It is unthinkable to marry where there is no true affection.’ So now, before you start your sermonizing on men and marriage, go to work!”
Muttering what sounded like a dark malediction against men in general and Daniel Hollingsworth and Henry Lyons in particular, Elizabeth left Tabitha’s office, her boots striking the hall’s wooden floor with a particularly angry sound. The front door’s slam confirmed her departure. Only after Tabitha was sure Elizabeth was gone did she take the envelope that had come with the flowers from under her desk blotter, open it and remove the accompanying card. The message penned in bold script barely fit the card’s small size.
Mea culpa. Ignosce mihi DMH
PS. Quomodo Latium?
How did he know that she knew Latin? A strange, long-absent longing started an almost schoolgirl-like flutter in Tabitha’s heart. Fluttering over Daniel Hollingsworth? The man who would have no doubt, prosecuted her and her daughter if he’d been QC? Ridiculous! Turning over the card, she re-read the second message.
The first interview is yours. Name the place and time, but leave the dueling pistols behind. DMH.
And trying not to smile, Tabitha took pen and paper from her desk to compose her answer.
Early the next afternoon
“Girls? Louisa?” Daniel blinked at the trio of women who were busily hanging glass and wooden ornaments on an enormous Douglas fir tree in the corner of his office. Garland wrapped in golden ribbons hung from the valances, while sprigs of red berried holly stood in tiny glass vases on the windowsills. His daughters smiled in greeting while Louisa Keller continued to adjust some of the ornaments already on the tree.
“Surprise, Papa!” Victoria Hancock called, stepping from behind the tree. “What do you think?”
“I’m stunned.” Daniel remained standing in the doorway, taking in the scene. Even as a child, Victoria delighted in surprising him. Facing him now, her face glowed with happiness at her success at still being able to do so.
“But do you like it?” Kathleen Bradshaw asked, her hand on the tree, clutching a tiny wooden soldier. Even though she was only thirteen months younger than, Victoria, she was still, even as a married woman, far more sensitive than her sister. Daniel was grateful they’d both been married when Letty died. Their husbands’ love had carried them through the formal mourning period when at times, Daniel, dealing with his own blinding grief, doubted his ability to offer them much comfort.
“You haven’t had a tree in your office since Mother died,” Victoria died. “Or—” her voice faltered for moment before she could finish, “or at home.”
“It didn’t seem to be worth the trouble putting one up at home since you two have invited me to spend Christmas Day at your homes the past few years,” Daniel pointed out. He was quite sure they suspected decorating the house would be too great a reminder of their mother. Letty adored Christmas and welcomed all the festivities that went along with it with the enthusiasm and eagerness of a young girl. From the first year of their marriage, she’d taken great pride in decorating whatever chambers he occupied, later bringing the children with her when they were old enough. The ornaments hanging on the tree now were the ones she’d used for his ‘work-tree’ as Charlie always called it.
And at home, not a single room in the big house where they raised their children went untouched, each having a special set of decorations just for it. She excelled at hiding little surprises throughout the house for them to find during the Advent season leading up to Christmas and she was downright devious about placing mistletoe in the most unexpected places.
Tucking back those memories in their very special place, Daniel cleared his throat and said, “I think a closer inspection is required before I can answer that question, Kathleen.” He dropped into his best courtroom persona as he continued into the room. After hanging his coat and hat on the coat rack and affecting his most grave expression, he moved forward for a closer look at the tree. Slowly circling it, he paused to brush the branches with his fingers, hold up an ornament for closer scrutiny, or step back and deeply inhale the fragrance filling the room, fully aware of his daughters’ growing concern. Louisa, looking quite lovely in a gown of dark rose, stood to one side.
“I think it’s quite the finest tree I’ve ever had in my office,” Daniel declared at last. “Excellent work, my dears!”
His reward was a kiss on the cheek from them. Sliding an arm around each of their waists, he smiled at Louisa. “Did you have a hand in this?”
“I merely arranged for the transportation of the tree,” she said. “Your daughters can be quite persistent, Daniel. Not to mention persuasive.”
“We saved the star for you, Papa,” Victoria said, stepping away to fetch the ornament from a box on a side table. Holding it up, her smile wavered for a minute. “We brought the one from the ornament box at home,” she said. “Do you mind?”
“Certainly not,” Daniel said. “What’s a Christmas tree without a star?”
“I mean, since you haven’t put up a tree at the house since Mama died—” Victoria’s voice wobbled. “We thought it would look nice on this tree.”
“You were right, Victoria,” Daniel agreed. “And as I am the tallest person in the room, it is only right that I do the honors.”
Victoria
brought it to him, and after giving it quick polish with a handkerchief from his pocket, he hung the old star on the topmost branch. “Perfect,” he praised.
“It’s a bit battered,” Louisa pointed out.
“As all well-loved ornaments should be,” Daniel observed. “Shall we have tea? No doubt you’ve already made arrangements for that as well?”
“Mr. Edgeworth was merely waiting for you to arrive,” Kathleen said proudly. “We stopped by Schultz’s Bakery to pick up some of your favorite sandwiches and pastries, especially the little chocolate peppermint cakes you like so well. Mr. Edgeworth said they’re just keeping the water hot in the canteen.”
As if he’d been given a cue by an unseen prompter, Edgeworth entered with a large tea tray. He set it on the table, unloaded it, and bowed to the women. “Will you require anything else, ladies?”
“I think this will be fine,” Louisa said.
“Were you part of this conspiracy, Mr. Edgeworth?” Daniel followed the women to sit in one of the high-backed leather chairs by the fireplace. “Did they coerce you into revealing what time I would most likely be back in chambers?”
“I merely followed your daughters’ instructions, just as you would have me do, sir.” Edgeworth said solemnly. Really, the man had no sense of humor at all.
“Well, if you’re that good at keeping a secret, I’ll need to keep my eyes on you,” Daniel joked. “Or perhaps I should recommend you as a spy to the Foreign Office.”
To his surprise, his secretary paled and pressed the tray to his chest like a protective shield. “Will that be all, sir?”
Daniel waved him toward the door and waited until Edgeworth had closed it behind him before releasing a sigh of relief. “He’s an excellent secretary, but seriously lacking in his ability to take a joke.”
“Is that a requirement to work for you?” Louisa asked, pouring out the tea.
“No, but in the law, it sometimes comes in handy,” Daniel said. “And it’s very few barristers who can arrive to find their office has been decorated for the holidays by three of the prettiest women of his acquaintance.”
