Her reserve belied her invitation, but Rachel accepted. “Yes, thank you.”
In the cottage’s main room, which clearly served as both dining room and parlour, a small smoky fire burned low in the grate. One of the windows had been boarded over. The house was, as Susanna had said, a little warmer but not warm enough.
Mrs. Reeves covered a cough with a gloved hand, then smiled at them.
“Sir Timothy, a pleasure to see you, sir. And Lady Brockwell, welcome. I could only wish our home were less humble, or that I had some refreshment to offer you. All I have are the dainties we received from you, and it doesn’t seem right to offer those back to you.”
“Don’t give it another thought, Mrs. Reeves. We shan’t stay long. We were hoping to interest your daughter in a situation at Brockwell Court, if she would like one.”
Susanna shook her head. “I don’t want charity.”
“Who said anything about charity? A nurserymaid to Miss Pocket will work hard and be tested, I don’t doubt. And as much as we love our Frederick, looking after him requires a great deal of effort.”
“I couldn’t. I have my own children and Mother to look after.”
“Oh, come my dear,” Mrs. Reeves protested. “I can look after myself and my own grandchildren. They are not babes anymore.”
“Nurse Pocket lives in,” Rachel added, “so we were thinking yours could be a daily situation. You could come home at night, say after Frederick’s dinnertime?”
Mrs. Reeves nodded. “That sounds very reasonable, my lady.”
The children came in. The boy of about eight and the girl of four or five, as Richard had described. Their grandmother urged, “Come and meet Sir Timothy and Lady Brockwell.”
The two came forward, shy but polite.
“Good day, sir. Madam,” the boy said.
The girl stood beside her brother, half-hidden behind his back, her large eyes fastened on Rachel. “You look like a princess.”
Rachel smiled at her. “I am not a princess, I assure you, my dear. But thank you for the compliment.”
Susanna placed one hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other on the girl’s head. “I don’t mind hard work, and I can’t deny we need the money. If the position were anywhere else, I would not hesitate. But to work in Brockwell Court . . .”
She was thinking of Richard, Rachel guessed. Just what had transpired between the two? She glanced at Timothy and noticed a slight frown crease his brow. Was he aware of their history, whatever it was? She guessed not.
To assure Susanna that Richard would not be in residence for long, Rachel said, “As it is the Christmas season, we do have a house full of guests at present, which is in part why we could use more help, as I cannot be with Frederick as much as I would like. But after Epiphany, things will quiet down. It will just be Frederick, me, and Sir Timothy, his mother, sister, and of course the other staff members.”
Sir Timothy named the wages he thought fair.
Susanna’s mouth parted, a half laugh, half protest escaping her. “More than fair, but—”
“She accepts,” Mrs. Reeves blurted, giving her daughter a little nudge. “When would you like her to start?”
Remembering Mrs. Reeves was partial to grayling, which were in season in December, Richard and Wally drove to the fishmongers in Wishford and bought two fresh fish, planning to drop off the paper-wrapped parcel on his way home. He also stopped briefly at the printers. Jamie looked up hopefully, but Mr. Knock waved Richard away. “Can’t stop to talk, Mr. Brockwell. One more job to finish before we close for Christmas.”
Insolent man. Sending a smile in Jamie’s direction, Richard reluctantly took his leave.
Richard drove the back roads to Ivy Hill, and as he neared the village, he saw a female figure trudging up the hill, burlap sack and basket in arms. A small boy walked beside her, carrying a second bag.
The boy glanced over his shoulder, and Richard recognized him as Susanna’s son, Peter.
Richard called, “Susanna! Em, Mrs. Evans! May I give you a lift home?”
She glanced over but kept on walking. “No, thank you, Mr. Brockwell.”
“Mamma . . .” the boy whispered loudly. “This is heavy.”
“Yes, please do allow me to help,” Richard offered, halting the horses beside them.
“We don’t need help, Mr. Brockwell.”
The boy’s eyebrows raised, and he repeated plaintively, “Mamma . . .”
Susanna turned to him. “Oh very well. Thank you, Mr. Brockwell. A ride home would be most appreciated . . . for Peter’s sake.”
“For Peter’s sake. Understood. Slide over, Wally.”
They stowed their parcels on the floor and climbed up onto the cushioned seat, Peter sitting on his mother’s lap, Wally snug between them.
“We went for supplies in Wishford,” Susanna explained. “Prices are better there than at Prater’s. I want to make sure Mother is well supplied before I start working. Never realized how heavy flour, suet, and turnips could be.”
Richard told his horses to walk on, and the curricle set off again. Awkward silence followed. He knew from Rachel that she had offered Susanna a position. He wondered how his old friend felt about it and supposed she would not relish the notion of working in his family’s home.
As they rode along, she sent him a sidelong glance. “I suppose I have you to thank for the job offer.”
“Not at all. I had no idea my sister-in-law needed a nurserymaid.”
She sent him a skeptical, sidelong glance. “The last thing I want is a situation at Brockwell Court. But we need the money, and Lady Brockwell hinted you would not be staying long. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He winced at her brusque tone, then asked politely, “When do you start?”
“Boxing Day. They said I could wait till after, but this way Nurse Pocket can have some time off.”
“Kind of you.”
She nodded curtly and stared straight ahead.
He glanced at her strained profile and regret pinched his heart. Once upon a time, she had looked him directly in the eye, expression open and warm and . . . loving.
He said quietly, “I am sorry, you know.”
For a moment she did not respond, and he wondered if she’d heard or if she was deliberately snubbing him.
Then she replied in equally low tones, “No, I don’t know that.”
Peter, little forehead furrowed, looked one from to the other. “Sorry for what?”
Richard thought, For letting things go too far and then leaving without a word . . . But aloud he said only, “Oh, many things. For not visiting your grandmother earlier, for example. I am very glad you three have come to visit now.”
“We are not visiting, not really,” Peter replied. “We’ve come to live here. We had to give up our old place. Couldn’t pay the rent.”
“Shh. That is enough, Peter. Mr. Brockwell does not need to hear all of our problems.” To Richard, she amended, “While my husband lived, we were perfectly comfortable. I don’t want you to think he did not provide for us. He was put on half pay after he was injured, and with the doctor’s bills and all . . . things became difficult. More so when he passed on.”
“No pension?”
She shrugged. “We married without his commanding officer’s approval, and as he was not an officer. . . . No. Nothing to speak of.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
She glanced significantly toward her son. “But we will be all right. Nothing to worry about. God has always watched over us, and He always will. You do believe that, Peter, do you not?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
Richard wondered if she sincerely believed it, evidence to the contrary, or if she only said the words to reassure her son. Parents, he knew, sometimes said things to appease their children, whether true or not.
Then again, he thought, he himself had enjoyed a life of ease, yet his own belief in God’s provision was weak.
> As they neared the turnoff to Honeycroft, Richard darted a look toward Bramble Cottage in the distance, and his chest tightened. He quickly averted his gaze. He was glad he did not have to pass too close to it to deliver Susanna home. He’d done his best to avoid that place for years and saw no reason to change now.
As if reading his thoughts, Susanna said softly, “She has moved away, you know. Over a year ago.”
He had not known, but he made do with a nod. The tension gathering in his chest eased.
When they reached the garden gate, Richard slowed the horses and Susanna gathered her shopping. Wally began sniffing at the wrapped fish he’d all but forgotten about.
“Thank you for reminding me, Walt.”
He handed the parcel to Peter. “Grayling for your grandmother. Though I trust there’s enough to share.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Susanna nodded stiffly. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Brockwell. Though you really shouldn’t have.”
“I wish there was more I could do.”
She dipped her head, sadness clouding her pretty features. “And I wish I could believe you.”
That afternoon they all gathered in the great hall to help decorate Brockwell Court. Christmas Eve was the traditional day to put up the decorations that would be taken down twelve days later. The gardener and groundsman had already gathered holly, ivy, and fragrant cuttings of rosemary, bay, and Scots pine. Rachel and her lady’s maid supplied twine, scissors, silk, and gold paper.
The servants set up a large makeshift table in the open hall, and everyone found a spot and set to work. With the housekeeper, Mrs. Dean, instructing them and Lady Barbara supervising, they created long garlands by intertwining holly, pine boughs, and ivy. The men wound the garlands around the columns supporting the entrance porch and down the long stately staircase. Then Justina and Arabella added festive ribbon bows.
They dressed the mantels and windows with more garlands of evergreens. And Lady Barbara draped a garland of Christmas roses around the portrait of Sir Justin, her late husband. Then the women made daintier garlands of rosemary and bay branches to decorate the dining room table and chandelier.
Richard decided to create his own favorite decoration: a kissing bough, made of holly, ivy, and mistletoe. Normally his mother frowned on the use of mistletoe with its pagan origins, but this year she made no complaint, agreeable to anything that might spark romance between the gathered young people. He hung it in the archway of the drawing room.
Soon the house was filled with the tangy smells of pine, rosemary, and bay leaves, along with the savory scents coming from the kitchen.
Richard found himself enjoying the simple pleasure of working with his hands, but his mind kept returning to Jamie Fleming and the odious Mr. Knock. What sort of Christmas would they be having? Richard doubted it would be a cheerful one. He decided he had a letter to write and an errand to do.
The decorating done, Richard excused himself. “Pray pardon me, ladies. I feel the need to ride off on an errand.”
“Richard, no. Not on Christmas Eve,” his mother protested. “I know you plan to while away the hours in the public house, but we need you here.”
He pressed his chest. “You wound me, Mamma. I have no intention of whiling away the entire evening in the public house, though thank you for the suggestion. Perhaps a pint or two of Christmas cheer would not go amiss.”
“Richard, you are incorrigible.”
“Thank you. It is one of my best qualities.”
With Pickering’s help, Richard changed into riding clothes, donned his greatcoat, and strode out to the stables. A short while later, he rode past The Bell Inn and down the hill toward Wishford on horseback.
The sun set around four in late December, so already the sky was darkening. He rode past candlelit homes and frosty fields, scared up a pheasant, and continued into the neighboring village. Reaching the print shop, Richard dismounted and tied the horse to a nearby post. From the look of the shop, he would not be staying long enough to bother taking his horse to the livery. The shop windows were dim, and when he tried the door, he found it latched. Not surprising, Richard supposed, that the shop would be closed on Christmas Eve.
Richard stepped back and looked at the windows above. Dark there as well. Apparently no one was at home. Had the man taken his apprentice with him, wherever he went to celebrate the holiday?
Then he saw an upper curtain flick to one side. Was that a face behind the glass?
“Jamie?” Richard called.
A moment later the window creaked open. “Shop’s closed for Christmas, sir.”
“So I see. What are you doing up there in the dark?”
“Just waiting, sir. Mr. Knock told me not to burn any candles. Dear, they are.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone to his brother’s in Grimstead.”
“And what are you supposed to do while he’s away? Sit there in the dark?”
“I’m to watch over things.”
“Could you come down here, please? I am getting a crick in my neck talking up at you.”
“Very well. Though I am supposed to keep the door locked.”
“I am not a thief. Come down.”
A minute later, the door unlatched and tentatively opened. If possible, the lad looked thinner than the last time he’d seen him.
“Has he left you anything to eat and drink?”
“Oh . . . I’ll be all right, sir. There’s a bit of bread and a few apples.”
“But it’s Christmas!”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t expect anything. Only an apprentice, after all. Never really celebrated Christmas. Though at the orphan home we had a turkey and bread pudding. Delicious.”
“Let me understand you. You are to sit alone in the dark for days with nothing but a scrap of bread and a few wizened apples?”
“Well, it’s not dark all day.”
“What about the basket we brought?”
“Took it with him.”
“And the cheese?”
“I ate some of it. I hid the rest, but it found it.”
“What do you mean ‘it’?”
The boy shuddered. “The big rat that lives in the garret.”
Richard pressed his eyes closed and barely restrained an epithet.
“No. It won’t do.” He shook his head. “Get your coat. You’re coming with me.”
The boy’s mouth fell slack. “I’m not to leave, sir. If I did, Mr. Knock would punish me, and I don’t want that.”
“Grimstead is miles from here. When is he expected back?”
“He didn’t say exactly. Didn’t want me to get any ideas about running off.”
“Never mind. The sign on the door says closed till December twenty-seventh.”
“But if he should come back early and find me gone . . .” The boy shivered.
“Leave it to me. I shall write a note for him, just in case. Telling him I gave you no choice but to come with me. Will that do?”
“Maybe.”
“Come, Jamie. I promise you mince pies and every good thing if you accompany me.”
The boy hesitated. “But . . . can I trust you, sir?”
“Ah. You are wise to be cautious. Life has no doubt taught you to be wary of strangers. But we are not strangers any longer. And you met my friends Murray and Miss Awdry. Between us, we will make sure no harm comes to you.”
“Where would you take me?”
“Brockwell Court. Where I grew up. It’s only a few miles from here.”
“But they can’t want me there. Not in a place like that. Or . . . do you need help? Is that it?”
“Yes, we need a great deal of help eating the feast our cook is preparing. If you think you are equal to the task.”
“Well . . . if you truly don’t think they’d mind—and have enough to spare, that is.”
“Indeed we do. And don’t worry, I won’t make you come upstairs with my lot. Boring, highbrow toffs. But our housekeeper is a good sor
t, as is Pickering. You met him too. The older man?”
“And your dog, sir?”
“Yes, Wally will be delighted to see you again.”
Jamie looked down at his stained, grubby clothes. “I am not fit for a mine shaft, let alone a manor house.”
Richard said gently, “If they let me in, they’ll let in anyone.”
The lad looked up, hope sparking in his eyes. “May I have five minutes to wash my face and put on my clean shirt?”
“Yes, by all means.”
While he was gone, Richard wrote the note to Mr. Knock, explaining he had insisted Jamie join them at Brockwell Court for Christmas and promising to return him.
A few minutes later, Jamie trotted downstairs, face clean, hair slicked back, coat buttoned, and flat cap in hand.
“Do you mind riding behind me on the horse?” Richard asked.
“I . . . don’t mind, though I have not done so before. I hope I don’t fall off.”
“We’ll take it slow.”
Twenty or thirty minutes later, man and boy rode at a leisurely pace up the Brockwell Court drive, past the shaped hedges and fountain. Candles shown from the windows, and the greenery around the columns gave the house a welcome warmth. Even Richard could not fail to appreciate the manor’s appeal.
Jamie asked in wonder, “You grew up here, sir?”
“Well, if I’ve grown up, here is where it happened.”
“It’s a beauty. And so big.”
Richard could not disagree.
They took the horse to the stable, where the groom helped Jamie down, then took charge of the animal. Richard and the boy walked together toward the rear door. Jamie sent him an uncertain glance, removed his hat, and smoothed back his hair.
“All will be well. I promise,” Richard assured him, and led him inside and belowstairs.
There they encountered the housekeeper. “Ah, Mrs. Dean. May I introduce to you Jamie Fleming. Jamie is an apprentice in Wishford. Jamie, this is Mrs. Dean, our esteemed housekeeper. I know it is a busy time, but I hope you will make him welcome.”
The woman blinked, clearly surprised by the request. “To be sure, your young friend is welcome. But might we . . . em . . . discuss the arrangements?”
“Ah, of course. Just give us a few moments, Jamie.”
An Ivy Hill Christmas Page 8
