by Kate Pearce
The girls around the table sighed again.
“But what happened? Why didn’t you marry the girl?” the footman demanded.
“Why is she stuck here now, on her way to enter into service?”
“We were discovered,” he said sadly. “She’d been reluctant to introduce me to her family and I quickly discovered the why of it. She is of good blood and I . . . am a cook.”
Frau Klaus stood up from the seat where she had paused in her labors, grabbed a thick knife and thunked it into a joint of meat.
“Her father refused to even listen to my suit. I was tossed out. They betrothed her to a noble lord straightway—and I was devastated.”
Several sniffs came from around the table.
He took a moment before speaking again. “She haunted me. Her shade lived in my shop. I couldn’t cook. I couldn’t eat. And not long after, I received an invitation from a nobleman who had stopped in my shop. He asked me to come and cook at his estate—and so I accepted.”
“That is the saddest thing,” the maid said.
Gareth straightened. “I have cooked for the lady patronesses of Almacks, sent packages of treats to Wellington, I even concocted a selection of my specialties for the Prince Regent at his Brighton Pavilion. I have reached a level of success I could never have dreamt of, but . . . it all rings hollow.”
“You need that girl in your life,” the boot boy declared.
“I do, George,” Gareth agreed. “I only recently learned that Miss Atkins never did marry. For the first time in years, I dreamed of real happiness. I packed up and went to argue my case again—and I found her gone. Cast out, essentially, by her horrid brother.” He pushed away the empty dish before him, reached down, picked up his case and placed it on the table before him. “I brought along the means to win her back.”
Everyone eyed the small trunk with curiosity.
“Diamonds?” little George asked.
“Gold coins, I’d wager,” the footman corrected.
“No.” Gareth snapped open the case and pulled out a block of pungent, crumbly white cheese. “I’ve ingredients in here. Everything I need to recreate that first, rich, Welsh tea. I mean to remind her of those wildly romantic moments we savored, and ask her to share a lifetime more.”
The sigh that went around the room heartened him.
“But I need to beg your indulgence, Frau Klaus. If you’ll share a bit of kitchen space with me, I’ll fix a grand Welsh tea for everyone to share around your Tannenbaum.”
A chorus of pleas arose and everyone looked to the formidable woman.
She kissed the tips of her fingers to the room. “Och, yes! For love, I would do much more.” She met Gareth’s gaze. “And your help in the kitchen with the Christmas dinner would be much appreciated.”
Gareth laughed. “It’s a bargain.”
Emmaline ladled a bit of taffy and poured it out onto a buttered tray, where she worked it with a flat knife as it cooled. “Butter your hands well. It’s nearly ready.”
They were gathered in the parlor. A group of men and women sat around the Christmas tree, sharing tales. She had enticed another group around the fire, where she stirred the boiling candy, getting it ready for those who waited to take part in the Christmas Eve tradition.
“Nancy, you’ve been such a help. You go first.”
The girl stepped forward, frowning.
“Pinch off a section. Roll it out a bit. Yes, another, just like that. Now, drop it into the icy water.”
They all watched, amazed as the hot candy twisted and tangled.
“Now, pull it out. Does it resemble letters? Initials?”
Nancy broke into a broad smile. A letter F. And an N. Good! My own initials. I don’t want anyone or anything deciding my true love—except me.”
A newly wedded couple stepped forward. “Go ahead, darling,” Mr. Sanders encouraged his wife.
She repeated the steps. “Oh, yes—this is definitely a J! Even the taffy knows how much I love you, James.”
Several of the gathered young girls tittered.
“Won’t you try your hand at it, Mr. Richland?” Mrs. Sanders called.
“No, thank you. I already know everything I need to about true love,” the gentleman answered.
Another young lady stepped forward. She must have had a difficult time with the weather. She wore what looked like her nightgown, covered with a gentleman’s coat. Emmaline helped her pull pieces of the taffy. She looked delighted when she removed what looked like a letter P, followed by an A. The gentleman hovering behind her looked horrified.
“Won’t you give it a try?” Emmaline asked a young, dark girl watching from a few steps away. Lady Gaia agreed and Emmaline smiled when she pulled her first piece out. “Well, that could be a letter M—or if you turn it—an E!”
“Which is it?” the girl asked.
“I suppose that is for you to decide—or the fates,” Emmaline answered. “But it looks like you have an R to pair it with.”
Another girl named Emily pulled out an R and then an H. She looked happy enough with those results.
“Oh, I think we’ll need more butter,” Emmaline said after a few more guests tried it. “We need to protect everyone’s hands. Nancy, will you watch the pot of candy while I run to the kitchen?”
“No! That is, there’s no need for you to go,” Nancy amended. “I’ll fetch it for you.”
Emmaline regarded her with a frown. “Is there a reason I’m being kept from the kitchen?” She’d been surprised when she’d descended to find all the ingredients for her taffy had been set up at the fire instead of the stove.
“No! That is . . . well, our Chef Pierre is on holiday and Frau Klaus is having to make do in there. She’s not used to the house being so full and things just are . . . not as usual in there. It would be better if you didn’t see it this way.”
“Oh, is that it? Well, tell Frau Klaus we thank her for her efforts. Those ginger biscuits were excellent.”
“Chef Pierre left them for us.”
“Well, whatever she’s putting together in there now smells divine, as well.” She gripped the girl’s hand. “And thank you for all of your help. Sharing this is taking my mind off of . . . things.”
“Why don’t you go next, Miss?” Nancy urged. “Find the initials of your own true love? Maybe you’ll meet the bloke in London and you’ll be forewarned.”
“We’ll wait until everyone has had a chance to try,” Emmaline answered. “It’s likely a waste with me. I’ve tried it every year, since I first learned the tradition. The initials are always the same.”
“The same?”
“Every year,” she said sadly.
“The beau? Your good one?”
“Yes,” Emmaline said in a whisper. “The good one.”
Nancy stepped away. “I’ll be right back with that butter, Miss.”
Emmaline went back and helped those ready for their turns. There was a good deal of laughter and speculation and some surprise, too. The candy was nearly gone when a small boy approached her with a covered dish.
“Excuse me, Miss?”
She noticed a smudge of something dark on his jaw. Boot blacking? “Yes?”
“Will you take a seat, Miss? The kitchen has sent out something special for you.”
“Because of the taffy? There is no need. I’m sure everyone is helping with the entertainment this evening.”
He ushered her to a cushioned chair with a table next to it. With a flourish, he set down the dish. “But we understand this to be one of your favorites, Miss.” He lifted the lid.
“Oooh. Crempogs? Real Welsh pancakes?” She leaned over to find the little cakes still fresh, hot and dusted with sugar. “I do love these!”
“Try one,” the boy urged.
“I will, if you will.” Together they each lifted a fork from the side of the tray and took up a healthy bite. “Mmm . . . these are wonderful. Just like—” Her heart dropped. “Like a real Welshman would make.”
“Here’s the next course.” A maid approached and put down another dish. “It’s brar . . . britha . . .”
“Bara brith. Speckled bread,” Emmaline supplied.
“Aye! That’s it,” the girl said with relief. “Ye like that one too, do ye not?”
“I do.” Emmaline frowned. “But I thought Frau Klaus was from the Germanic states? How does she know these wonderful Welsh recipes . . .”
Just like that, wild hope flared inside her. Her pulse leaped, pulling her right out of the chair. Her knees were shaking, but she ignored such missish weakness and turned toward the kitchens, prepared to fight her way in, if necessary.
It wasn’t necessary.
He stood there. Gareth Lloyd. His dark eyes shone brighter than the candles on Frau Klaus’s Christmas tree and his face was filled with suppressed excitement—and tenderness.
She ran.
A halting step, at first, but then she consciously dropped her grief and guilt, the notions of duty and expectation due to those who would not return the same. One by one she let them all go—and her heart grew wings. She turned light as air and her steps flew. She launched herself at Gareth Lloyd, fully trusting that he would catch her.
He did.
One armed, to be sure, because she’d failed to notice the platter he carried, but he caught her with a happy shout of surprise and glad triumph and he held her tight as her arms went round him. Tears started flowing down her cheeks and servants streamed from the kitchen behind him, carrying trays and trays of delectable smelling food, distributing it to all gathered in the parlor.
“Here now, what’s this?” He set the tray aside and ran a finger along her cheek. “No tears! For I’ve made your favorite.”
“Glamorgan sausages?” she sniffed.
“What else? And I’ve carried good Welsh cheese across the country to do it, what’s more.” He took her face between his hands. “They are still your favorite, are they not?”
“You are my favorite,” she said fiercely.
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I never forgot you,” he whispered. “Nothing I’ve cooked in all of these years has tasted right—because I could not ask you how you liked it.”
“Nor I, you.” She looked up into his dear, dark eyes and ran her fingers into his thick hair. “I have never walked a country lane, looked over a lake or stream, or witnessed any scene of beauty without mourning that I was not sharing it with you.” The tears started again.
He kissed them away, gently and one at a time. Then he pressed his lips to hers. Like a key that threw open the floodgates, that kiss ushered in vast swathes of affection and warm acceptance, and all of the warmth of inevitability. Of the notion that at last, all was right with the world.
She pulled away and looked up at him. “Nothing in my life has felt real, because you were not a part of it.”
“Emmaline.” He buried his face into her nape and then looked down, deeply into her gaze. “Will you take tea with me?”
“Yes.” She blinked the tears away. She was done with them. “Will you walk in the snow with me?”
“Yes.” His voice lowered and travelled, rumbling, to settle in a seductive pool at her core. “Em—will you marry me? Will you make me a part of all of your days?”
Suddenly, she grinned and eyed the platter. “Will you make me Glamorgan sausages at least once a week, for all of our days?”
“Done,” he vowed.
“Then, yes.” She pressed closed, fitting against him in that utterly satisfactory way. “I will marry you. The taffy has been telling me what our hearts knew all along. I will marry you—and we will be happy—as we are meant to be.”
A smattering of applause broke out—but they never heard it.
And every year after that, for all of their long lives, they shared the tradition of taffy making on Christmas Eve.
Every year, with the same, happy result.
Blame it on the Mistletoe
Virginia Heath
Nathaniel was going to have his guts for garters. String him up by his toes. Perhaps even insist they meet with pistols at dawn. And who could blame him? He had entrusted the care of his baby sister to his best friend while he went off to propose to the woman of his dreams, claimed he was the only man he trusted with his precious but precocious sibling, and how had Drew repaid him? By agreeing to Miranda’s hairbrained and scandalous scheme and now they were stranded for the night.
All alone.
In the snow.
In a brothel!
Of all the dire scenarios his quick, military mind could have foreseen, this one was without a doubt the direst and totally unforeseen and he blamed her entirely for it. If she was recognised, Miranda would be completely ruined- but what was the alternative? Freezing to death on the road? Ruination was better than death. Surely? Regardless, if Nathaniel found out, there was no doubt he was going to kill him, whether or not this was the only solution to their current predicament.
But if she’s ruined on your watch, you’ll have to marry her…
“Liebling- you look chilled to the bone.” Frau Klaus smiled kindly, gesturing into the brightly lit and festive-looking parlour, her voice deeply accentuated with German. “Fetch your lady, Lord Andrew, and come sit by the fire.”
Whilst a fire of any description was extremely tempting, in his current state, it was out of the question until he could hide his troublesome charge. “You are too kind Frau Klaus- but I am afraid the parlour is too public a place for Mir… My lady.” He lent closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I must appeal to your charitable good nature madam, for you see the lady I find myself stranded with is both unmarried and noble. Being seen here will destroy her reputation. I will require private accommodations for her.”
The older woman stared at him levelly for a moment then quirked one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “This is a house of ill repute Lord Andrew- not an inn. The private rooms are in use.”
“You have customers? In this blizzard?” He glanced back at the veritable wall of white flakes behind him, so dense and thick that he could barely see his carriage. The proprietor shrugged, causing the white feathers on her regal green turban to quiver.
“One or two. We expect more.” She winked conspiratorially. “It is a cold night my lord. My girls still need to earn their living and gentlemen, in my experience, like to keep warm. A harlot cannot work without a room, my lord.
“Then I’ll gladly pay them for their time as well as compensate you for the trouble of taking up a bedchamber. Just one room?” He held out his fat purse. Jiggled it. Smiled his most charming smile, the one which hadn’t failed him yet in all his five and twenty years. If the weather eased, he could sneak Miranda out at dawn and have her home before her over-protective brother returned at noon. If he didn’t kill the minx himself first. “How about I give you double what you would usually get?”
She eyed him up and down taking in, no doubt, his damp but impeccably tailored evening clothes. The deep red silk waistcoat Miranda said suited his dark colouring, but which provided no protection, it turned out, from the cold. The fat ruby stick pin nestled in the folds of his austerely tied cravat. “It is the parlour or nothing my lord. And as for the lady’s reputation, there are plenty of other stranded ladies and gentleman already warming themselves by the fire. It is a room full of chaperones. Her reputation will be perfectly safe. Or you could try some of the inns outside of Canterbury I suppose…”
Only the biggest of idiots would risk the treacherous, dark and icy roads in this snow storm. After tonight’s shenanigans he was prepared to concede he was an idiot, but he had not completely lost all his marbles. He took out his purse and held two gold coins aloft. “Two guineas and not a penny more.” A king’s ransom for one room for just one night.
“You could offer me a hundred sir, and my answer would still be the same. Come… it’s cold outside. Far too cold to be arguing on a doorstep. Bring your poor lady in.”
What choice did he have? The
roads were treacherous. All the inns were full. He knew that because he had traipsed up the snow-covered paths to every single one of them. His shoes were sodden. His toes almost numb. He pulled up the collar of his evening coat and stared back at his carriage, knowing she was inside it.
Miranda.
The root cause of his current misery. The bane of his life. His best friend’s baby sister. Going back to fight in the Peninsular held more appeal than spending one night stranded alone with her.
Liar…
He groaned aloud and braved the elements again, wincing as the frigid wind and sharp ice crystals smacked him in the face while simultaneously welcoming the discomfort. Anything which took his mind off her was fine by him. He steeled himself before opening the carriage door, but the sultry waft of her perfume undid all his resolve even before his eyes took in the sight of her.
Jet black hair coiled loosely atop her irritating head, woven with blasted mistletoe of all things in deference to the season. Beautiful feline eyes in the colour of the finest Indian emeralds. Plump pink lips his craved to kiss. And that scandalous red dress. He blamed that dress for his lapse in judgement too. The first sight of her in it had rendered his tongue too thick to speak, let alone talk her out of doing what she had announced she planned to do, and like a sailor seduced by the sirens he’d happily followed. Exactly when had annoying little Miranda turned into such a dangerous seductress?
To take his mind off all the inappropriate things it was thinking, he stared down at the abandoned masquerade mask on the bench next to her. “You should probably put that back on because there are no rooms. We’re going to have to sit in the parlour with every other stranded traveller.”
She grinned and he knew exactly what she was going to say next. Because it was always a variation on the same theme whenever she thought he was being a fuddy-duddy- which she did with unflattering frequency. “Oh for goodness sake Drew! I know you are obsessed with preserving my reputation and conserving propriety, bless you, but if the brothel is filled with other stranded travellers, don’t you think that silly mask might arouse their curiosity about my identity further?”
