An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  “Yes, sit yourself down, young man. Be comfortable.”

  Following the housekeeper into her sitting room, Richard explained the lad’s predicament—left to shift for himself on Christmas with barely enough food to keep a mouse alive.

  She shook her head, nostrils flared. “Never liked that Mr. Knock.”

  “Needless to say, the boy doesn’t expect to join the party upstairs. That would frighten him to death. But a few good meals and a warm cot somewhere for two nights?”

  “Yes, we can manage that. I will speak to Mrs. Nettleton. And what about church tomorrow?”

  “Oh. I had not thought of that. If he wants to go, very well, but we need not force him.”

  She smirked. “Are we talking about him or you?”

  He chuckled. “Both of us.”

  “What is Christmas without going to church, Master Richard? The crib, the Christ child, the hymns . . .”

  “As you think best, Mrs. Dean.”

  He turned to go, but she called him back. “May I say that it was kind of you, Mr. Brockwell.”

  He shrugged off the unfamiliar praise like a stranger’s cloak.

  “I did nothing. But I appreciate your help. And I know he will appreciate any kindness you show him.”

  Richard joined the others for dinner and smiled and nodded his way through the meal, but all the while wondered how Jamie was getting on belowstairs.

  Afterward, instead of lingering over port with the gentlemen, he slipped back downstairs.

  In the passage, he heard the cook talking to the housekeeper, and none too happily.

  “Easy for him to take in a stray and then expect us to feed ’im and bed ’im down. The urchin will probably steal us blind in the middle of the night. What’s the man up to? Never knew Master Richard to do a kind, selfless deed in his life. What’s in it for him?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know.”

  Mrs. Nettleton frowned and crossed beefy arms over an ample bosom. “Humph.”

  Richard turned from the door, deciding it was not the best time to make his presence known.

  Upstairs, Timothy stood waiting for him in the hall.

  “Wondered where you went. Looking in on your young guest?”

  “Yes. How did you hear of it?”

  “Mrs. Dean mentioned his arrival to me just before dinner. I must say I am as surprised as she was. Though perhaps I ought not have been, as Rachel mentioned you took a basket to the apprentice.”

  “Mrs. Nettleton doesn’t seem too happy about an extra mouth to feed, but Mrs. Dean was gracious about it. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind, though I do find it curious.”

  “So do I, in all honesty. But it seemed the right thing to do.”

  Timothy nibbled his lip. “He will have to go back, you know. There are strict laws about apprenticeships and severe penalties when they run off from their masters.”

  “I know.” Dull dread filled Richard at the thought. “But it’s only for Christmas.”

  His brother nodded. “As long as you both remember that.”

  Later that Christmas Eve, Justina announced it was time for dancing, and all heaved themselves to their feet to oblige her. Rachel had arranged for Mrs. Klein, the local piano tuner and an accomplished musician, to play for them.

  The footmen moved the furniture from one end of the long room and rolled up the large Turkish carpet.

  Justina called the first dance, and she and Mr. Ashford stood at the top of the set as lead couple. Before Richard could act, Horace Bingley claimed Arabella, and Timothy and Rachel joined them, forming two facing lines for a longways dance.

  Richard dutifully asked his mother to dance, but she waved him away, protesting she was too old and too full to dance, so he turned and asked Penelope instead.

  She hesitated. “I don’t mind sitting out if you’d rather not dance with me. I know you would rather dance with Arabella. And clearly Mr. Bingley does too.”

  Richard saw the disappointment written on the tall woman’s face. “I am sure he will dance the next with you, and if he does not, he is more the simpleton than I believed him. Let’s dance, Miss Awdry. Show them how it’s done.”

  Penelope grinned. “I am willing if you are. But I must warn you, I have never been light on my feet.”

  “I consider myself duly warned.” Richard gave a little bow and offered his arm, then together he and Arabella’s sister joined the others.

  When she saw her sister’s smile and heard Pen and Richard talking and laughing together, Arabella’s regard for Mr. Brockwell grew. She watched the two covertly as they danced. He moved with natural athletic grace, and when Pen made a wrong turn or collided with someone, he helped her recover with good humor and kindness, which impressed Arabella.

  The couples completed a set of country dances, then paused to change partners.

  Arabella wondered if Richard would ask her to dance and told herself it would be better if he did not. Better to keep her distance. She feigned interest in her fan, trying not to appear eager. Yet she could not deny her feelings for the man had started to change, her prejudice against him to soften. Don’t be swayed so easily, she told herself. Men don’t change, do they? At least not that quickly. Guard your heart.

  He approached and asked, “May I have the next, Miss Arabella? Your sister survived dancing with me, after all.”

  She hesitated, searching his handsome face for sincerity or jest. Should she politely decline? Standing so near to him, she smelled his spicy shaving tonic and saw the warm light in his blue eyes. Her stomach tingled with anticipation, and her disloyal tongue replied, “With pleasure.”

  Horace and Penelope joined them, as did Rachel and Mr. Ashford, and Sir Timothy with Justina.

  Mrs. Klein played the introduction of another country dance, and the four new couples took their places.

  After balancing right and left, they turned and changed places. Mr. Brockwell took both of her hands in his, and together they moved around their neighbors. He looked steadily into her eyes as he did so, an admiring smile on his handsome face. Despite herself, she smiled back, enjoying his attention and the feeling of her hands in his. Finally, they joined four hands across and circled right, then left.

  The simple pattern repeated, and each time Mr. Brockwell faced her or took her hands, his gaze held hers. He really was most attractive—elegant yet masculine, and so appealingly confident . . .

  Near them, Penelope tripped on her own hem and stumbled. Horace reached out to steady her.

  Pen’s face reddened. “Sorry. I am no good at this.”

  “Not at all, Miss Awdry. You dance very . . . resolutely.”

  Penelope grinned at him, and the two danced on.

  When the set ended, Mr. Brockwell offered Arabella his arm and escorted her across the room toward the waiting chairs. “You are a beautiful dancer, Miss Arabella. Not to mention a beautiful woman.”

  Her cheeks warmed with pleasure. She looked up into his beguiling blue eyes, thinking, I could say something similar of you, but she made do with a murmured, “Thank you.”

  The footman brought in punch, tea, and coffee, and they all paused to take refreshment, sitting on the clustered chairs and sofa, talking and laughing and catching their breath.

  Arabella turned back to Richard, found his warm eyes fastened upon her, and wondered what it would be like to be married to such a man. She pushed aside the surprising thought, reminding herself of her plans to remain single and move to London. Besides, would a man like Richard Brockwell ever love a woman enough to honor his marriage vows and remain faithful to her alone for the rest of her life? She doubted it.

  From her place at the end of the sofa, Justina leaned forward to ask, “You will go to church with us tomorrow, won’t you, Richard? It is Christmas, after all.”

  He made a face. “I have not darkened the door of a church in years, except the occasional wedding or funeral.”

  Surprise flashed through Arabella. “Re
ally? How sad.”

  He looked at her with interest. “Why sad?”

  “How much you miss. The fellowship, the worship, the inspiring reminder of whose you are and why you are here on earth.”

  “The long, tedious sermons and repetitive prayers . . .”

  Justina shook her head. “Don’t say that. Mr. Paley is a dear, good man.”

  “Never said he wasn’t. His sermons could do with a skilled editor—that’s all I’m saying. Or is he paid by the word, as many writers are?”

  “You’re terrible,” Justina scolded. “But you need not worry. He won’t keep us overlong tomorrow. Not with Christmas dinner waiting.”

  Horace Bingley patted his stomach. “I hope you are right.”

  Later, when people were beginning to say their good-nights and depart for bed, Arabella turned to Richard once more and said quietly, “I sincerely hope you will join us tomorrow, Mr. Brockwell.”

  He looked at her, flattered but slightly wary at the same time.

  On impulse, he nodded toward the top of the archway. “Perhaps if you happened to stray beneath that innocent-looking ball of greenery over there, I might just be swayed.”

  She shook her head, tolerant amusement shining in her eyes. She did not, however, linger under the kissing bough.

  CHAPTER

  Eight

  The next morning, Pickering came into his bedchamber with none of his usual stealth, letting the door hit the wall, causing the teacup to clatter.

  “Good morning, sir. Happy Christmas!”

  “Pickering, you devil. Go away. It’s too early.”

  “Not at all. You’ll need ample time for a good wash and shave before dressing for church. The green coat, do you think? Sets a festive tone.”

  Richard pulled the bedclothes over his face and grumbled, “Never said I was going to church.”

  “Ah, but you did. Overheard you tell that lovely Miss Awdry.”

  “No. I hinted that an encounter beneath the mistletoe might sway me, but that did not happen, so I am staying in bed.”

  “Your hints have the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Sir, if I may be so bold—”

  “Could I stop you if I tried?”

  Ignoring him, Pickering went on, “A lady like Miss Awdry would be far more persuaded by gentlemanly behavior than roguish manipulation. And she would look far more kindly on a man who attended church on Christmas Day wearing his natty green coat. Might even sit beside him, perhaps even take his arm if the way is slippery with frost.”

  Richard lowered the bedclothes, eyeing the old valet with begrudging admiration. “Pickering, you old Romeo . . .”

  “Is that an improvement over an old devil? One is not sure. . . .”

  In the end, Richard got up, washed, cleaned his teeth, and submitted to Pickering’s ablutions with razor and brush. Then, dressed and oddly cheerful for such an early hour, Richard went downstairs.

  After eating toast and jam and sipping tea, Richard again sneaked belowstairs. This time, he witnessed a scene very different from the grumbling of the night before. There sat Jamie, cutting out stars of dough to top the small mince tarts the cook was making. Mrs. Nettleton stood at his shoulder, clucking her approval.

  “I use plenty of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg in my mince pies,” she said. “Do you know why?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “They represent the gifts the magi gave to the Christ child.”

  “Ah.”

  She watched him work a moment longer. “Very good, lad. Such a good helper, you are. May I pour you some hot chocolate?”

  Richard grinned and tiptoed quietly back upstairs.

  At the appointed time, everyone gathered in the hall to set off for church together. The weather was mild and the way not far, so most of the party would walk. Only Lady Barbara and Lady Lillian preferred to be driven in the barouche-landau, but at least this way only one groom had to remain outdoors with the horses while the other staff could attend the service if they wished to. Most did. Many of the servants, dressed in their Sunday best, walked at a respectful distance behind the family. Pickering, Richard noticed, walked beside Mrs. Dean, the two talking like old friends.

  Jamie Fleming walked near them, dressed in a fine blue coat. Richard wondered where Mrs. Dean had found it.

  Seeing him looking his way, Jamie waved with a dimpled grin. Richard stood to the side, letting the others pass until Jamie caught up with him.

  “Happy Christmas, Jamie.”

  “It is indeed, sir! And the same to you.”

  “Thank you. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Don’t be daft. ’Course I am!”

  Richard chuckled, then caught his brother’s eye.

  “Timothy, Rachel, please come and meet someone.” His brother and his wife stepped over. “Sir Timothy, Lady Brockwell, please allow me to introduce my new friend, Jamie Fleming.”

  The boy swallowed and dipped an awkward bow. “Sir. Madam. I . . . hope you don’t mind me coming to your house.”

  “Not at all, Jamie. You are very welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  The couple smiled at him and then walked on.

  “That’s your brother, sir? Seems jolly nice. Must be grand to have a brother.”

  “I think you’re right. Though I haven’t always appreciated that fact.”

  Reaching the churchyard, he saw Mrs. Reeves, Susanna, and her children. Susanna looked more like her old self today, dressed in a pretty frock and wearing a smile. Only the matronly cap distanced her from the Susanna he’d known. Mrs. Reeves looked cheerier too. Peter ran over to greet Mr. Murray, though they had met only once as far as Richard knew. His sister, Hannah, followed more slowly. Murray crouched low to speak to each of them, asking their favorite thing about Christmas.

  The little girl shrugged shyly, but Peter energetically replied, “The Christmas pudding!”

  Many other people Richard vaguely recognized clustered near the front of the church in little groups, chatting amiably. Friends and neighbors greeted one another, and many wishes of “Happy Christmas” could be heard.

  Rachel’s lifelong friends, Mrs. Jane Locke and Mrs. Mercy Kingsley, hurried over to greet her and to coo over young Frederick in a flowing gown with green ribbons for the special occasion.

  Mrs. Kingsley’s aunt, Matilda Grove, greeted the Awdrys, while village friends huddled around the Brockwell Court servants. Even Jamie found himself warmly greeted and introduced to the vicar’s sons. After a moment, Richard realized that only he and his mother stood alone.

  Noticing him nearby, Lady Barbara said, “Your father always loved this part. All the fawning villagers wishing him merry. Not I.”

  He studied her profile, stern yet vulnerable, and felt an odd mixture of emotions: distance, pity . . . love. His regal mamma, isolated by her pride. And him? What separated him from the happy throng? His long absence or disdain for home and all it entailed, including his neighbors? Remorse pricked him at the thought.

  He said, “I can imagine Christmas is not a joyous time for you since losing Father.”

  “No, nothing is.”

  On impulse, he took his mother’s gloved hand and found it stiff in his grasp.

  “Come, Mamma. You have your children around you and are surrounded by neighbors. It’s Christmas. Let’s make an effort. Look, there’s Matilda Grove. Shall we go and greet her?”

  As if hearing her name, Matilda turned in their direction and approached with a tentative smile. “Lady Barbara, Happy Christmas. And young Richard here too! What a blessing. How long has it been?”

  “Too long,” his mother replied, giving his hand a squeeze.

  Richard felt that squeeze through his heart.

  “I quite agree,” he murmured and realized he meant it.

  Filing into church a short while later, their party filled the Brockwell pew and spilled into the next. He found himself seated next to Arabella Awdry. Old Pickering’s prediction had been right. He’d have to giv
e the man an extra guinea on Boxing Day.

  “Slide over as far as you can,” Rachel whispered down the line. “It’s a full house today. Horace needs a place.”

  Richard, already pressed against the end of the pew, waited with sweet anticipation as Arabella sent him an apologetic look and shifted closer. The fabric of her frock brushed that of his trousers. Her shoulder touched his. After a few moments, he could feel the warmth of her body seeping into his and liked that very much indeed.

  “Am I squashing you?” she whispered.

  “Not at all.”

  She glanced at him, and then away again, whispering, “I am glad you decided to join us today.”

  “So am I.” To himself, he added, More than you know.

  The congregation sang, repeated the prayers still familiar from boyhood, and listened to Mr. Paley’s warm, paternal voice. The vicar spoke of the miracle of Christmas and how much the Father loved everyone to send His beloved Son to earth to save all mankind.

  During the sermon, Richard’s gaze strayed often to his young nephew, of whom he was already quite fond. He could only imagine the all-consuming love Timothy felt for his son and knew he would give his own life to protect him. That the heavenly Father would willingly send His Son into a harsh, fallen, and dangerous world? Astounding.

  After the sermon, the congregation sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” As they did, Richard leaned nearer Arabella, longing to hear every nuance of her voice. Goodness, what a fool he was becoming. No wonder he’d avoided Ivy Hill for so long. The place did strange things to his resolve.

  The fourth verse caught his attention.

  “Yea, Lord, we greet Thee, born this happy morning;

  Jesus, to Thee be glory given;

  Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing. . . .”

  Word of the Father, appearing in the flesh? As a lover of words, he found that intriguing, even moving. He thought the words might be from Scripture and decided to read it later for himself, though he wasn’t sure where to look.

  Next they sang “Joy to the World,” and then Mr. Paley dismissed them with a final blessing.

  The congregants rose, more greetings were exchanged, and as they passed out the door, everyone thanked the vicar and wished him and his family every joy of the season.