A Tale of Two Hearts

by Michelle Griep

  “Will’s uncle,” she whispered back.

  “Ahh. Fitting that his family join us.” Straightening, Father motioned for the newcomers to work their way to the stairs. “Come, come. We will do this together.”

  But she couldn’t quite work up the same amount of excitement that boomed in Father’s voice. What would Uncle Barlow say? Had he forgiven Will? Or her?

  Will pulled her close. “Have faith, Mina. We’ve done all we could. Let us leave this in God’s hands, as we should have from the start.”

  The crowd cleared a space for the entourage, and Uncle Barlow dipped his head toward Father. “Thank you, sir.” Then he faced the crowd. “In this season of giving, there can be no better time than to announce to whom I shall give my estate. And so, tonight, amongst family and friends—” he beamed down at Miss Whymsy—“I should like to name the heir of the Barlow lands.”

  Percy and Alice leaned closer.

  Miss Whymsy smiled broadly at the lady next to her.

  Mina held her breath. Please, God, have mercy.

  “I shall place my holdings in a trust, to be used exclusively for the Institute for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen, which is directed by my new friend here, Miss Florence Nightingale.”

  The lady next to Miss Whymsy clapped her hands with a, “Hear, hear!” that would’ve made Miss Minton proud.

  The institute? But how had the old fellow…of course. Miss Whymsy must’ve spoken of it. Mina couldn’t help but smile. What a perfectly fitting solution for Uncle Barlow and the institute.

  “Yet,” Uncle Barlow continued, “I shall need an administrator to live at the estate to manage the funding and all other details. A trustworthy administrator. One who knows the house and lands like none other, and who of course shall be well compensated.”

  Percy stepped forward.

  But Uncle Barlow extended his hand toward Will; the old, worn, second-chance coin resting on his upturned palm. “What say you, my boy?”

  Without letting go of her hand, Will reached for the coin with his other. “Only if I may bring my wife along.”

  Uncle Barlow’s gaze swung toward her. “In truth?”

  “Aye!” Father belted. “And that’s my announcement. Lift yer mugs in toast and honor to the happy new couple. We make merry tonight, and in four weeks’ time, shall make merry again with the marriage of my daughter to Mr. William Barlow.”

  A roar shook to the rafters, followed by a hearty, “Bring out the stew!”

  Which prodded Father into action. He trotted down the last few stairs then disappeared into the kitchen, where Martha had been the sole keeper of the big bubbling pot for the past hour.

  Will tugged Mina down the rest of the stairs and shepherded her over to his uncle. “Thank you, sir. This is no small honor—” Will’s voice choked.

  And she didn’t blame him. What a marvel, how things had turned out.

  Uncle Barlow clapped him on the back. “I think we can all thank Miss Whymsy. The whole idea was hers. Oh, except for this…” His face sobered. “I have arranged for your mother to be moved to the institute as soon as she is well enough to travel. I hope to make things right by her. No one should have to fear their own family.”

  The world turned watery, and Mina blinked back happy tears. Thank You, God, for taking such a twisted situation and straightening it out.

  Will’s throat bobbed several times before he answered. “You are more than gracious, sir. I can only hope to someday become the man that you are.”

  “I’d say you’re well on your way, but remember these words, my boy. ‘Whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well;…whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest.’” Uncle turned his smile toward her. “Can you name that one?”

  Joy swelled in her heart and spilled over into a large grin, for in the speaking of a single quote, she knew she’d been well and truly forgiven by Uncle Barlow. “From David Copperfield, sir.” She hugged the book tucked beneath her arm all the tighter.

  He chuckled. “Spot on. I shall have to work harder in the future to baffle you, hmm?”

  “Oh, Mr. Barlow.” Miss Whymsy crooked a finger at Will’s uncle, beckoning him to her side. “If you wouldn’t mind, a moment please?”

  “Of course,” he answered, then bent his head closer to Will and Mina, speaking for their ears alone. “Mum’s the word for now, but don’t be surprised if another wedding follows shortly after yours.”

  The old fellow turned on his heel and darted off before either of them could reply—and a good thing too for Mina was speechless. How amazing. How happy. How kind of God to have worked out such a perfect ending.

  She peered up at Will, memorizing the joy on his face. Who knew what hardships the new year would bring, but for now, she’d live in this moment—in his gaze of love. “Oh, Will. How happy I am—”

  “Congratulations, Cousin.” Percy brushed past her and stopped in front of Will. “I guess you got what you wanted.”

  “No, not quite.”

  Will’s words jolted through her. What more could he possibly want?

  “There is one more thing that I desire.” He held out the second-chance coin. “To give you this.”

  Percy snatched away the bit of gold in a trice. “What is it?”

  “I am the man I am today because Uncle Barlow—and God—gave me a second chance. I’d like to do the same for you. I will speak to Uncle about seeing to your creditors, if you promise to stop your wild money-making schemes and get yourself an honest job. In fact, I happen to know of a law clerk position that will be opening up shortly.”

  Her heart swelled. William Barlow was a hero after all…her hero.

  Percy narrowed his eyes. “What’s the catch?”

  “There is none.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Surely you expect something out of me for such a save.” Percy cocked his head like a curious tot. “What is it?”

  “I neither expect nor require anything. Don’t you see? This is your chance to earn an honest living. Granted, it’s not much, but there’s opportunity for you to work your way up. Of course you don’t deserve it, but neither did I when Uncle first offered me the position. And God knows none of us deserve His mercy—yet it is freely given. I cannot do otherwise. So, what do you say?”

  Percy blinked. Then blinked some more. “Well. I…I don’t quite know what to say.”

  Grabbing two mugs off a passing tray, Will handed one to his cousin and held up the other. “How about you say Happy Christmas and leave it at that?”

  “What’s this about?” Alice asked as she joined Percy’s side.

  For a moment, Percy frowned, then slowly reached with his free hand and pulled Alice close. “Happy Christmas, to our cousins.” He clinked his mug against Will’s and took a big draw.

  With a laugh, Will swigged a drink, set the mug down, and gathered Mina into his arms.

  She smiled up at him. “You really are a hero, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” He kissed the top of her head. “But it seems this has turned out to be the best Christmas ever.”

  “It is, my love.” She nuzzled her face against his shoulder. “That it is. And may we have many more.”

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  Christmas Pudding

  Christmas pudding is quite a production, one that begins well before Christmas Day. In fact, it begins on Stir-Up Sunday, the last Sunday before Advent (or five weeks before Christmas). This is why when Mina returns home from dinner at Uncle Barlow’s, she sees the pudding moulds on the kitchen table even though it’s not yet Christmas.

  Victorian Oyster Stew

  Oysters have been savored in Britain since the days of the Romans. By Victorian times, industrialization cheapened oysters to the point of them becoming a staple of the poor man’s diet, and they were a common fare served in public houses. This, however, depleted their abundance, a
nd by the mid-1800s, the natural oyster beds became exhausted, making it harder to find good oysters. While other foods were served as well on Christmas Eve, oyster stew was as common as goose or turkey.

  “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”

  The origins of this song are controversial, with some claiming it dates back to the fifteenth century and others saying it didn’t appear until 1760. Regardless, Victorians knew it well. Even Charles Dickens included it in A Christmas Carol.

  Drinking Chocolate

  What we now call cocoa or hot chocolate was called drinking chocolate in the mid-1800s. This beverage was a favorite among Victorian ladies. You can find recipes for it even from the Regency period (early 1800s).

  Florence Nightingale and the Institute for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen

  Despite opposition from her family, Florence Nightingale became the Superintendent at the Institution for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen in Distressed Circumstances in London. Because of her, the facility began accepting patients of all religions, not just those allegiant to the Church of England. She received no salary and was responsible for her own expenses.

  Secret Societies

  Victorians were intrigued by the idea of covert meetings and secret societies. Many of these “clubs” dabbled in the supernatural, but a fair amount of them pursued social justice. While the norm was fraternal fellowships, there were also sororities or “sisterhoods.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are so many people who had a hand in bringing this story to you, but namely I’d like to thank the best critique buddies a girl could have: Yvonne Anderson, Julie Klassen, Elizabeth Ludwig, Shannon McNear, Ane Mulligan, Chawna Schroeder, and MaryLu Tyndall.

  A hearty round of applause as well to Annie Tipton, the awesome editor who took a chance on me in the first place.

  And last but definitely not least, much gratitude to my hero husband, Mark, who also happens to be my true BFF.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michelle Griep has been writing since she first discovered blank wall space and Crayolas. She seeks to glorify God in all that she writes—except for that graffiti phase she went through as a teenager. She resides in the frozen tundra of Minnesota, where she teaches history and writing classes for a local high school co-op. An Anglophile at heart, she runs off to England every chance she gets under the guise of research. Really though, she’s eating excessive amounts of scones and rambling through some castle. Keep up with her adventures at michellegriep.com. She loves to hear from readers, so go ahead and rattle her cage.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1855

  I have long abhorred black. It is a great abyss, sucking in the colours of the rainbow and wringing the life from them. The moniker of death. So it is no great loss when I slam the lid on the chest, shutting away my widow’s weeds. Forever. I rise from my knees, and a genuine smile curves my lips.

  “Mrs. White?” Betty raps at my chamber door and peeks her head inside. Her bleached apron is stark against her black servant’s gown, and my smile fades. How much would it cost to reissue the staff with pewter-grey liveries instead? I determine to take it up with the solicitor when he arrives in an hour.

  “Yes, Betty?” I soften my tone for she is a skittish little thing. Harsh words make her flinch even now, though it’s been a year since my husband railed and raged about the townhouse.

  “My pardon for disturbing you, mum.” She dips her head. “But a Mr. Barlow is here, awaiting you in the sitting room.”

  “Barlow?” I roll the name around with my tongue, taste it, and find it a completely foreign flavor. “Who is that?”

  The ruffle on Betty’s cap trembles where it meets her brow. “Says he’s with Smudge and Gruber, mum.”

  I glance at the clock ticking away on the mantel. Fifty-six minutes remain until I expect Mr. Smudge. Frowning, I thank Betty, and ponder who and why the mysterious Mr. Barlow is awaiting me.

  A loose curl flops into my eye, and for a moment I consider leaving the rogue to bounce free, for that is what I am today. Finally and completely my own person…leastwise once Mr. Smudge arrives and I sign all the paperwork. But then a shadow clouds my mind, as dark and black as the mourning gowns I’ve laid to rest. Was this Mr. Barlow here with ill tidings about Mr. Smudge?

  I pin the offending hair into place and leave my chamber. Memories bombard me like thrown tomatoes as I scurry down the corridor. There, where September sun shines through the windowpanes, the place where my husband threatened to push me out the glass. I shudder and speed past the vigil lantern on the hall table, the one that carved a small scar into my neck when he’d swung it at me. And at the top of the stairs, I take a moment to press my hand to my stomach. How many times had Mr. White tormented me by saying he ought to shove me down the stairway and be done with me?

  Ghosts. All ghosts. I remind myself that my husband is well and truly gone and descend the stairs—hopefully for one of the last times. It will not be soon enough that I may leave behind this house of horror.

  A thick man, hardly much taller than I, stands looking out through the sheers at Wellington Street, either enthralled by the day’s traffic or lost in thought. Hard to tell. I clear my throat before I greet him. When he turns, sunlight bounces off his spectacles, and I blink.

  “Good day, Mrs. White.” He bows his head, and though I try to place the fellow with his dark hair and somewhat pasty skin, I cannot. “Mr. Percival Barlow, clerk to Mr. Gruber, at your service.”

  I take a seat on the settee and direct him to an adjacent chair. A small alarm begins to buzz at the back of my mind. Why was this fellow here instead of my lawyer? “To what do I owe this visit, Mr. Barlow?”

  He settles a leather messenger bag on his lap and unbuckles the straps while he speaks. “Normally I make the rounds for Mr. Gruber. He is unlike Mr. Smudge in that he rarely leaves the office. However, today I take it upon myself to add Mr. Smudge’s clients to my stops as well.” He pauses to pull out a sheaf of papers, then lifts his face to me. “I regret to inform you that your lawyer, Mr. Smudge, took a fall from a horse yesterday and broke his leg. In short, I am here to get your signature on the documents that he’d intended for you to sign.”

  He hands over the papers, and I page through them. Strange how a lifetime of ambition can be condensed into nothing more than a stack of parchment.

  Mr. Barlow offers me a pen. “Each document represents one of your deceased husband’s holdings. Sign your name on the bottom lines and the businesses will be sold, the proceeds of which shall come to you.”

  It is a bittersweet legacy. One that scratches as sharply as the nib with which I write my signature on the first page, selling off a dry goods warehouse in Birmingham. Surely Mr. White is rolling over in his grave. He’d married me, a girl five decades his junior, in order to avoid such a travesty of dying without an heir—and made me pay with each passing year that I didn’t give him a son.

  “You should be very well off for the rest of your days, Mrs. White.” Mr. Barlow’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “I daresay you shall be able to do whatever it is you fancy.”

  The truth of his words slams into me, and my pen hovers above the line on the last page. Of course. He is right. But the only fancy I’d clung to the past year was the hope of leaving behind this townhouse and settling elsewhere, far from London. Escaping the past. Starting a whole new chapter of life. But what? And where? I’d been so preoccupied with flight that I’d not given a thought as to where I’d land.

  My gaze sharpens on the heading of the page in my lap. “Nottingham Lace and Hose.” Nottingham? Why not? That would be as good a place as any.

  I set the pen on the tea table then hold out the unsigned paper to Mr. Barlow. “Tell me of this business, sir.”

  His big eyes widen as he grasps the page between finger and thumb, and while he silently reads, his lips fold into a pout. “It appears this is a lace manufacturing company, one of your husband’s smaller holdings. His possession was at 51 percent, m
aking him the majority owner but not by much. It says here”—he spears his finger midway down the document—“that the co-owner intends to purchase that share for sole proprietorship.”

  Mr. Barlow shoves the paper back at me. “Not to worry, Mrs. White. There is nothing untoward about this paper. Simply sign it, and I shall be on my way.”

  But I clench my hands in my lap, leaving the paper to dangle from Mr. Barlow’s fingers. “Tell me, sir, what happens if I do not sign that document?”

  “Not sign?” His head recoils as if I’ve slapped him. “Why would you not? Surely you do not intend to pursue the majority ownership of some small, dismal manufacturing company up in the middle of nowhere. For without your signature on that page, the holding falls to you…an unheard of position for a woman.”

  The small hairs at the back of my neck bristle. It may be a poor decision, but I’ve been told one too many times what to do, how to live, when to breathe and eat and walk. A scream wells in my throat, and I use the energy of it to lift my chin. “Yes, Mr. Barlow. That is exactly what I intend.”

  His wide mouth parts, then closes, as if words have bunched up behind his teeth and he’s too afraid to let them loose. Finally, he sinks back against the cushion. “Are you certain of this, Mrs. White? It’s a different world north of here, and manufacturing is a harsh and unforgiving trade. I fear a woman of your stature may not last long in such an environment.”

  I stifle a smile. He can have no idea that his opposition only serves to empower me. Though he may very well be correct, whatever may come of this, at least it will be because of my own choice. “I am certain, sir.”

  His pasty skin greys to the shade of yesterday’s porridge, and he fumbles inside his coat pocket to pull out a beat-up gold coin. He holds it out to me.

  I’ve never seen the likes of it. The edges are chipped and gouged. A raised X takes up the most of one side. Words I can’t read encircle the other. I angle my head at the man. “What is this?”