Ballgowns & Butterflies: A Stitch in Time Holiday Novella

by Kelley Armstrong

  “And it’s Lottie I’ll speak to August about, posthaste. Let us go find him now.” He glances at the photograph. “Best not to tell him this is here.”

  “I won’t.”

  12

  William speaks to August alone. While August is hardly the sort to blush and stammer at the mention of sex—even in front of a woman—he is still a man of his time, and this conversation will go better without me to hear it. Particularly if the answer is not to my liking. I can’t imagine August shrugging off Lottie’s dilemma, but he might have already decided against offering her a job at his London home and instead just promise to have the housekeeper and other staff look out for her.

  I needn’t have worried. The matter is settled in the time it takes me to freshen up in the lavatory. August will offer Lottie a position, and if she agrees, she can quit Courtenay Hall right after the holidays and depart with August and Edmund. The earl will be livid, of course, but it’s not as if he gets on with August anyway. Also it’s not as if Tynesford can threaten to cut off August’s allowance—he did that when August married Rosalind—or threaten to keep him from visiting Courtenay Hall—access is part of August’s birthright. So while I feel bad about giving the brothers one more point of friction, William assures me August is only too happy to whisk an innocent girl from his brother’s lecherous clutches.

  From there, we depart. August offers to smuggle us into his quarters for the night, but I can only imagine what kind of scandal would erupt if we were spotted sneaking out in the morning. No, we gratefully accept a hot flask of tea from the cook, and then we’re off for the journey home.

  Once again, William makes good on his promise of an intimate diversion. Or he does after I assure him I’m quite awake enough and warm enough to enjoy it. We find a sheltered spot, ensure the horse is comfortable and then get comfortable ourselves in a bed of blankets. It’s a wonderful interlude, snow just beginning to fall around us, the night clear and bright with stars . . . though admittedly, I don’t notice either until I’m lying there afterward, cuddled with William and staring up at the sky.

  The next thing I know, I’m waking in bed. Obviously, I fell asleep. Equally obviously, William did not—he drove us home and carried me up to our room. I remember none of that, though, and I wake snuggled deep in blankets.

  I lift my head and find myself looking into Enigma’s green eyes as she stares at me accusingly. Then I see the sun through the windows. Bright midday sun.

  I blink and reach for my modern-day watch on the nightstand. It’s almost noon. I blink harder, and I’m pushing myself up when William enters with a steaming breakfast tray.

  I smile. “Breakfast in bed again? Careful, I could get used to this.”

  “I am merely providing necessary sustenance for the long and busy day ahead.”

  “Busy . . . ,” I say carefully. Even sitting up sets my entire body whimpering that it would like a few more hours of rest, please.

  “Yes, busy,” he says as he sets down my tray. “We have a terribly full day ahead of us. First, a sleigh ride. Then, charitable visits. Then, supper at the curate’s. Then, either caroling or attending Sir Hugh’s evening of charades.” He pauses. “No, I believe we can do both. First, the caroling, and then the party, with only an hour’s ride between them.”

  I open my mouth.

  “Oh, and decorating. I left off decorating twenty-first-century Thorne Manor so we might do it together. We’ll need to squeeze it in somewhere. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  I open my mouth. What comes out is a soft whine, audible only to the cats.

  William looks thoughtful. “Or—and I realize this is a mad thought—but hear me out. Or we could send our regrets on all counts, postpone the decorating, and you could spend the day in bed.”

  My mouth opens again.

  “No,” he says quickly. “That’s silly. Forget I mentioned it.” He sets the tray before me. “You can’t possibly be tired. It isn’t as if you slept the entire ride home from the ball, so exhausted that you didn’t even stir.”

  “I—”

  “Didn’t stir despite driving through a blizzard with me cursing the entire way.”

  “I—”

  “Didn’t stir despite the fact that we nearly plowed into a sheep.”

  “A sheep? In winter?”

  He throws up his hands. “Exactly my point. A white sheep during a whiteout. Fortunately, your husband is an excellent horse trainer, whose steed scented the beast and stopped for it. Then I had to check the ewe’s markings and return her to her owner, who lost her in the fall. Yet somehow, my wife kept sleeping. Soundly enough that I checked her pulse not less than five times, only to begin worrying that while the signs of life remained strong, perhaps she was suffering some sort of pregnancy-induced coma, one that would explain her not waking despite sharing her open-sleigh bed with a sheep.”

  “With a . . . ?” I peer at him. “Okay, now you’re making things up.”

  He walks to a chair, picks up my discarded corset and plucks off a strand of wool. “There was a sheep. And so, worrying about your health, I shook you awake. Do you remember what you said?”

  “No . . .”

  “You mumbled something about the woolen blanket smelling damp and then went back to sleep. Which suggests you were very, very tired. Except, if that were the case, you’d have told me instead of letting me drag you hither and yon.”

  “I’ve enjoyed being dragged hither and yon.”

  He gives me a stern look. “Perhaps. Yet maybe, in my excitement to give you a perfect first Christmas together, I forgot you are a six-months-pregnant professor on holidays, who flew across an ocean to see me. I failed to consider that you may be—humor me here—a wee bit exhausted.”

  I lift my thumb and forefinger. “A wee bit.”

  He sits on the edge of the bed and stretches his hands as far apart as they’ll go. “A wee bit.”

  I laugh and twist to fall into his arms, nearly upsetting my teacup. He rescues it and hands it to me, and I take a long sip.

  “Yes,” I say. “I should have told you. I just didn’t want to interfere with your plans, which were lovely and delightful, and I thoroughly enjoyed them.”

  “But now you’ll thoroughly enjoy a well-deserved day in bed?”

  “I will. Tomorrow.”

  He sighs.

  I lift a hand. “Today, I will spend a few more hours in bed. Then I would like to speak to Mary. I wish to offer her a position if that’s all right with you.”

  His expression tells me I’ve made the right decision even before he says, “It is most certainly all right with me.”

  “Then, while I won’t have Mary start until after the holidays, I would like to let her know as soon as possible. May we do that?”

  “We may. We could stop by her family’s home this evening.”

  “You did mention caroling. Is that really a thing?”

  He sighs. “In High Thornesbury, it is most definitely a thing. To my eternal dismay. Eleven months of the year, the villagers know to stay at the bottom of my hill. But come mid-December, they all begin tramping up, expecting Seville oranges and a cup of smoking bishop. A simple glass of mulled wine isn’t good enough, not since that bloody Christmas Carol story. They all want smoking bishop.”

  “Well, I shall help Mrs. Shaw make the punch, but since caroling is a tradition, I have an idea . . .”

  13

  It’s early evening, and we’re bundled up against the winter’s chill, walking along the front path of a tidy little cottage I know only too well. In my world, it belongs to Freya and Del. I’ve passed it many times in this world and never known who lived there, perhaps not wanting to know, lest they be unsuitable people. But as we make our way up the front walk, I’m grinning with delight.

  “Mary’s family lives here?” I say.

  “Haven’t I mentioned that?”

  I tug my hand from the muff to sock him, and he yelps far louder than it deserves.


  “That is not ladylike behavior, Lady Thorne. Yes, perhaps I ought to have mentioned it, but . . .” He glances at me. “I know homes are much larger in your world, and I feared it might . . . discomfit you.”

  He has a point. I’ve often thought how adorable Freya and Del’s cottage is, perfect for two people. Yet it had once housed an entire family.

  “I am a history professor,” I remind him. “I know this sort of living situation was much more common.” In the great cities, entire families live in places a quarter this size.

  “Life is different here,” I continue. “It is not always what I’m accustomed to, but many would argue that people in the twenty-first century don’t need nearly the size of homes they buy. Although one could argue that here, too. No family requires a house the size of Courtenay Hall. And Thorne Manor is rather large for two people and their cats.”

  “Don’t worry. It shall be full enough soon. I want at least six children. And a score of staff.”

  “More like six cats and a score of horses.”

  “Now that’s just ridiculous, Lady Thorne. Horses in the house? They’d trample the poor cats.”

  “The point, Lord Thorne, is that I realize this size of house is the norm for a village family, and if they are healthy and happy, then I will not be discomfited.”

  “If it bothered you overmuch, I suppose Mary could live in with us?” There’s a note of trepidation in his voice that makes me smile.

  “No,” I say. “Despite your jest about the score of staff, I know you would not want that, and I could not abide live-in staff any more than you.”

  He exhales in relief.

  I continue, “I will ask that we ensure her earnings well compensate her for the lack of room and board, and if she wishes, she may take rooms elsewhere. That seems a suitable compromise.”

  “Very suitable.”

  We reach the front door. William knocks. There’s a flurry of commotion inside, and someone peeks out a window, sees our lantern and basket and shouts, “Carolers!”

  There’s a pause, a silent one, and I glance at William, my brows rising as I wonder whether he’s not the only one who isn’t particularly thrilled with this custom. Just when I think they’re going to pretend they aren’t at home, the door opens, and a middle-aged version of Mary stands there, beaming. Then she sees who it is.

  “M-m’lord,” she says. “Is-is there a problem?”

  “No problem at all,” he says. “We’ve come caroling. Is Mary home?”

  Another pause. Then Mary’s mother invites us in, but the invitation is hesitant, and I get the sense she’d rather we stayed at the door. Having gentry unexpectedly come to call is the ultimate hostess nightmare. I assure her we’re very warm and comfortable and will not stay long. She backs inside and calls for Mary, and she returns with Mary, an older man, and an adolescent boy. Also a chair. The boy carries the chair outside for me to sit on. I thank him and say I will sit in a moment.

  “First, we have come caroling,” I say, lifting my lantern. I also point to the basket in William’s hand. Normally, this would be empty—a hint for a modest recompense for our singing, perhaps an apple or a sweet. Ours, though, is full. “And a holiday gift, in thanks for the kindness you have shown, allowing Mary to tend to me.”

  Mary murmurs something, trying very hard to sound appreciative and not at all disappointed that I’ve made no mention of her offer.

  “Now for the carol.” I look at William. “Please tell me your singing voice is better than mine.”

  “Er, perhaps we should have discussed this before we decided to go caroling.”

  “I take it that’s a no.” I turn back to the perplexed family. “We apologize, in advance, for our inability to carry a proper tune.”

  I take a deep breath. Then we sing our song to the tune of that Victorian caroling classic “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

  “We wish to hire Mary after Christmas, we wish to hire Mary after Christmas, we wish to hire Mary after Christmas . . . and John, too, if he can be spared.”

  The family gapes at us.

  “Oh my,” I say. “That’s not how it goes at all, is it?”

  Mary’s father lets out a boom of a laugh. “It is not, but it is a lovely song to hear nonetheless. I do hope I didn’t misunderstand the lyrics.”

  “Easy enough to do with our dreadful voices.” I look at Mary. “You suggested you would be available to work for us if we decided to hire additional staff with the baby. I would like to offer you a live-out position, to be assumed any time after the holidays. The salary will be negotiated once we have a better understanding of our needs and your availability, but it will be no less than twelve shillings a week for half-time employment.”

  Mary goggles at me. “Twelve shillings for half-time?”

  “That is very generous,” her mother says. “I do not think she requires quite so much, but as you said, it can be negotiated.”

  The average housemaid in this era can expect to make about fifteen pounds a year, slightly more than doubled if they aren’t given room and board. What we’re offering is a full-time wage for half-time work. It’s woefully low by modern standards, but to go higher would smack of charity.

  “We certainly can negotiate later,” I say, my smile belying the fact that I don’t intend to offer a pence less.

  “As for the second part of our song,” William says. “I know young John has been seeking employment outside the family farm. With the baby coming and my wife’s occasional family obligations in London, I have realized I will require additional stable staff. I wish to make a similar offer to young John. Twelve shillings a week for a half-time live-out groom position, to be negotiated properly after the holidays.”

  “Groom?” John says. “You mean stable boy, do you not?”

  “Am I mistaken that you passed your thirteenth birthday recently?”

  “N-no, sir. You are not.”

  “I have a stable boy, who works after his school classes, and he is but eleven years of age. That would mean, I believe, that you are better suited for the position of groom. Unless you would prefer to be a stable boy.”

  The boy straightens. “No, sir.”

  “You are fond of horses, I believe.”

  “Very much, sir.”

  “Then we will suit nicely.” William lifts the basket. “While we realize it is traditional to collect sweets while caroling, we find ourselves quite overburdened with them. We were hoping we might leave these here.”

  “Were you not continuing your caroling, Lord Thorne?” Mary asks. “I would join you if you were.”

  William hesitates.

  Mary’s mother elbows her daughter. “Lady Thorne ought not to be on her feet any longer than necessary.”

  “I would be quite fine with a few more stops,” I say. “Perhaps you would know who in town might not be otherwise occupied on this evening?”

  Mary nods, understanding my meaning—are there lonely villagers whose evenings we might brighten?

  “There’s the Widow Allen,” Mary says. “And Mr. Morris’s children have not yet come for the holidays.”

  “If they do at all,” her mother grumbles.

  “Then we shall make those stops and perhaps a third. Please feel free to join us, Mary.”

  “We’ll all join you, if that’s all right, ma’am,” her mother says.

  I smile. “That would be delightful. Thank you.”

  14

  ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The last rodent, it seems, had been caught this morning and deposited on my pillow as an early Christmas gift. We have peace now, as we cuddle on the loveseat in the library, watching our blissed-out cats lolling on the carpet.

  “What did you call it again?” William asks. “The herb in those toys?”

  “Catnip.”

  “For cats? How intriguing. I’ve heard of catnip tea for humans.” He watches Enigma purring loudly, wrapped around her
toy. “I do believe I shall invest in catnip as a cure for the overactive kitten.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll sell it on the pharmacy shelf, right beside Godfrey’s Cordial, for fussy babies. Which reminds me, I ought to purchase some of that for little Melvina.”

  When I glance over, his lips are twitching.

  I squeeze his thigh. “Not funny.”

  “No? I do believe opium addiction is a small price to pay for a quiet baby.”

  “Which reminds me that’s something we need to discuss with Mary. Absolutely no giving Melvina medicine for colic or teething or crying, even if it’s an old family recipe.”

  “Probably best to just request that she not give the baby anything unless approved by us.”

  “True.”

  Godfrey’s Cordial was a well-known “cure” for cranky babies in the Victorian era, along with several similar concoctions. In this time period, the manufacturer doesn’t need to list ingredients. The active one in most of them? Tincture of opium.

  We can be shocked by that now, but this is a time when lower-class women were expected to put in a full day of backbreaking work at home—plus taking in extra chores, like laundry—while tending to an endless stream of pre-reliable-contraceptive babies. If something kept those babies quiet while their mothers worked, they’d jump at it, especially when it was an approved medicine.

  Even if those mothers had known the truth, opium use is widespread at this time. It’s legal and easily available in laudanum, a lovely little sedative to help with everything, including restless sleep, “attacks of nerves” and menstrual cramps.

  “That reminds me,” I say. “If, in a few years, the doctor tries prescribing you anything containing a new miracle drug called cocaine, best to refuse it.”

  “Freya has already made an appointment for me to meet the doctor in modern High Thornesbury. No offense to dear Dr. Turner, but one thing I am fully taking advantage of is twenty-first-century medicine.”

  “Good call.” I sip my punch.

  “Stop looking at the presents.”