3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 16

  Her gaze landed on her brown-haired hero, and her heartbeat increased to a wild pace. William Barlow leaned forward in a chair, deep in conversation with the fellow seated adjacent to him—his friend, Mr. Fitzroy. Will’s presence lit the dull taproom into a brilliant summer landscape simply by merit of his presence—especially when he threw his head back and laughed. And oh, what a laugh. Carefree and merry, as if he’d reached out his hand and pulled her into a jig with the lightness of it.

  Mina grabbed a pitcher and filled it with ale, the draw of William too strong to deny. Bypassing the other customers, she headed straight for his table.

  “He’s invited me to a tea, of all things.” His voice, smooth as fresh flowing honey, grew louder the closer she drew to his table. “Can you imagine that, Fitz? A tea. How awful.”

  A smile curved her mouth as she imagined taking tea with William. Just the two of them. Him in his finest frock coat with a snowy cravat. Her in a new gown. She’d pour a steaming cup for him, and he’d lift a choice little cake to her lips while speaking of his deepest affections. She sighed, warm and contented. “I should think a tea would be very pleasant,” she murmured.

  Both men turned toward her. Mr. Fitzroy spoke first. “Well, if it isn’t the lovely Miss Scott, come to save me from this boorish fellow.” He elbowed William.

  Will arched a brow at her, a rogue grin deepening the dimples at the sides of his mouth. “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your appearance, sweet Mina.”

  Sweet Mina. Heat flooded her cheeks. She’d be remembering that endearment in her dreams tonight.

  But for now, she scowled. “Mr. Barlow, if my father hears of your familiarity, I fear—”

  “Never fear.” He winked—and her knees weakened. “I’m a champion with ruffled fathers.”

  Ignoring his wordplay, she held up the pitcher. “Refills?”

  William slapped his hand to his heart. “You know me too well.”

  Not as well as I’d like to. She bit her tongue. Where had that come from? Maybe Father was right. Maybe she had been reading too many books.

  “I’m as intrigued as Miss Scott.” Mr. Fitzroy held his cup out to her, for she’d filled William’s mug first. “Why would you not want to attend your uncle’s tea? As I recall, he’s a jolly-enough fellow.”

  Will slugged back a long draw of his ale and lowered his cup to the table. “Nothing against Uncle Barlow, mind you. And in truth, I was pleased he’d made contact. It’s just that, well … I am to bring my wife along.”

  Wife!

  The pitcher clattered to the floor. Mina stared at it, horrified. Ale seeped into the cracks of the floorboards, the very image of her draining hopes and dreams. William Barlow had a wife?

  Will shot to his feet. “Mina, you look as if you’ve seen the Cock Lane ghost. Are you ill?”

  “I’m f–fine. The pitcher—it slipped, that’s all.” She crouched, righted the pitcher to preserve the remaining ale, then yanked the rag from her waistband and mopped up the mess with more force than necessary. The scoundrel! All this time he’d had a hearth and home already tended by a wife? Did he have children as well? She scrubbed harder, grazing her knuckles against the rough wood. Good. She relished the pain and for a wicked moment thought about swishing the spilled ale over William’s shoes.

  “Wife?” Surprise deepened Mr. Fitzroy’s voice also. So … Will’s best friend had not known either? That was a small satisfaction, at least.

  “This is news,” Mr. Fitzroy continued. “When did that happen?”

  Holding her breath, she ceased her scrubbing, though why she cared indicted her for being naught but a dunderheaded hero seeker. Silly girl. Silly, stupid girl.

  William sank back to his seat. “Well, I don’t actually have one yet. And that’s the problem.”

  “Thank God.” The words flew out before she could stop them, and she pressed her lips tight.

  William’s face appeared below the table. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes. Just finishing up.” She forced a smile, reached for the runaway pitcher, and stood. This afternoon was turning into a novel in its own right. For the first time since she’d met William, she couldn’t decide if he were truly a hero or a villain.

  Will straightened as well, his gaze trained on her. The sun slanted through the front window, angling over his strong jaw and narrow nose. But it was his eyes that drew her. So brilliant, so magnificently blue, a sob welled in her throat. She swallowed. She truly was a silly girl.

  “Say, Mina,” he drawled. “You wouldn’t be willing to be my bride, would you?”

  “I—I—” The words caught in her throat like a fish bone, and she coughed, then coughed some more. Heat blazed through her from head to toe. Surely, she hadn’t heard right.

  William’s grin grew, his dimples deepening to a rakish angle. “Oh, don’t panic. It would only be for one afternoon. Surely you could beg off serving for an hour a week from next Thursday?”

  Her mouth dropped, but no words came out. What was she to say to that? Everything in her screamed to shout yes, but how could she possibly slip out from beneath Father’s notice? And a week from next Thursday? Not that her social calendar was packed full, but something niggled her about the date.

  “Oy, miss! Another round over here.” Across the taproom, a stout fellow, buttons about to pop off his waistcoat, held a mug over his head.

  “I—I don’t know,” she blurted out to Will and turned.

  But William grasped her sleeve. “Please, Mina. Allow me to explain. It won’t take but a moment.”

  She stared at his touch, a frown tugging her lips. Father wouldn’t like her dawdling with William, but how could she refuse the man she’d cast as the champion in every story she’d read? With a quick nod and a brilliant smile to stave off the other customer, she turned back to Will. “Make haste. I have work to attend.”

  “Right, here’s the thing.” He leaned forward, the excitement in his tone pulling both her and Mr. Fitzroy closer to him so that they huddled ‘round the table.

  “Uncle Barlow is ready to choose his heir. It’s between me and my cousin Percy—”

  “Egad!” Mr. Fitzroy rocked back on his chair. “That pompous donkey? I should think there’d be no competition.”

  “I agree, but my uncle favors a married man. And since I am not …” Will tugged at his collar, loosening his cravat. “Well, I gave Uncle Barlow the impression I’d recently wed, or I’d not even be considered.”

  Mr. Fitzroy let out a long, low whistle.

  Mina’s eyes widened. “You lied to your uncle?”

  William shook his head, the tips of his hair brushing against his shoulders. “No, not outright. I merely led him on a merry word chase, and he arrived at a particular conclusion.”

  Mr. Fitzroy chuckled. “One day, my friend, your deceptions will catch up to you.”

  “Perhaps. But not today. Not if you, my sweet Mina”—William captured her free hand and squeezed—“will agree to be my wife for the tea. I could pick you up at two o’clock. What do you say?”

  Say? How could she even think with the warmth of his fingers wrapped around hers and his blue gaze entreating her to yield? It would be lovely to live a fairy-tale life if only for part of an afternoon. Take tea in a grand house, finally be a real lady, just like those she so often read about—

  “Miss!” the man across the room bellowed again.

  —And escape the drudgery of serving corpulent patrons who more often than not smelled of goats and sausages.

  Pulling her hand away, she smiled at William. “I say yes.”

  God bless her! For surely her father wouldn’t. Before Will could say anything more, she scurried off to fill the other patrons’ mugs and drain her pitcher dry. On her way back to the tap, she swerved around a table, and her gown brushed against her hand. Paper crinkled at the contact.

  Then she knew.

  Setting the pitcher down on the counter, she glanced over her shoulder to make su
re no one was looking before she retrieved the note from her pocket. A moan caught in her throat as she reread the instructions:

  Sisterhood meeting November 10th

  2:00 p.m.

  Drat! That was a week from next Thursday. How was she to be in two places at once?

  CHAPTER TWO

  I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape.

  Great Expectations

  No matter the time of day, London streets teemed as if a great bucket of humanity had been upended and dumped onto the sidewalks. And late afternoon was the worst. Cabs, drays, and coaches filled the cobblestones, forcing pedestrians to travel as far from the gutters as possible, lest they be splashed with liquid refuse of all sorts. William Barlow not only took it all in stride but relished the challenge as well. A good leg stretcher, that’s what he needed—especially after the ridiculous proposal he’d just issued to Mina Scott. What in the queen’s name had he been thinking?

  “Hold up!” Fitz’s voice turned Will around—his sudden stop earning him a scowl and a curse from a fishy-smelling sailor who smacked against him.

  The man gave him a shove as he passed. “Watch yer step, ye carpin’ swell.”

  Ten paces back, Fitz dodged a knife-seller’s cart, one hand holding his hat tight atop his head, and caught up to Will. “I didn’t realize this was a race.”

  “Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Hmm, let me guess. Somewhere back at an inn with a certain blue-eyed beauty?”

  Will clouted his friend on the back, and they fell into step together. “You can’t be serious. Mina Scott is a sweet girl. Nothing more.”

  “As I suspected. And now that Miss Scott is out of ear range, how about you tell me the real reason for such a scheme?”

  Will shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me. Ever since Elizabeth, you’ve avoided anything to do with women other than lighthearted banter, and you’ve never given Mina Scott a second thought. Something else is going on here, something mighty powerful to be prodding you to play the part of a husband.”

  Thankfully, they stepped off a curb to cross Bramwell Street, where it took all of William’s concentration to weave in and out of traffic unscathed. And just as well—for he’d rather not dwell in the unforgiving land of memories.

  Once across, Fitz joined his side, with only somewhat muddy trouser hems to show for the experience. “You know I won’t be put off so easily.”

  That was an understatement. When Thomas Fitzroy was set on something, there was no turning the man back—a trait that served his friend well down at Temple Court. Even so, Will plowed through a few more pedestrians before he answered. “I told you everything. Uncle Barlow is—”

  “Yes, yes.” Fitz waved his fingers in the air like an orator making a point. “Uncle Barlow, what have you, and so on and so on. Not that I don’t believe every word you said, but I suspect there are a few more words you’ve conveniently left out. So let’s have it.”

  He snorted. “Perhaps you should have been a barrister instead of a law clerk.”

  “Perhaps you should get to the point.”

  Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Will stared straight ahead. Better that than witness the pity that was sure to fill his friend’s eyes once he told him. “It’s my mother. She’s not doing well. I can barely keep abreast with her medical bills, let alone continue to manage her housing expenses.”

  “Oh …” Fitz’s feet shuffled. “Sorry, old chap. I didn’t realize. Is she that bad off?”

  “Hard to say. You know doctors.” He shook his head as the last of October’s light faded into the first gloam of evening. “I shall have to move her from France, which will mean setting up a household of my own instead of rooming with you.” He sighed. “And that will come with a hefty price tag.”

  “I see. No wonder this whole inheritance thing is so important to you.”

  “It is. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish any ill on Uncle Barlow. Quite the contrary. I hope the old fellow lives a great many more years. But were I to be named heir, I’d have the collateral of the position if I must apply to a banker for funds. Lord knows I wouldn’t get a penny on my name alone.”

  His friend’s hand rested on Will’s shoulder, slowing him to a stop. Will braced himself for the concern sure to be etched on Fitz’s brow. But despite his preparation, he sucked in a breath at the sympathy welling in the man’s eyes.

  “I hope for your sake, and your mother’s, that this all works out.”

  “Indeed.” He cleared the huskiness from his voice and forced a half smile. “Let us hope so.”

  “But I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention this.” Fitz rubbed the back of his neck. “Miss Scott is a beauty, no doubt. And ladylike. She’s been nothing but kind and ever attentive. Yet is she the right sort of woman to impress your uncle as a realistic bride? She is an innkeeper’s daughter, after all. Not exactly a highborn miss. And she’s nothing like … Well, you know.”

  While it was a champion thing of his friend to voice his misgivings so earnestly, Will cast Fitz’s cares aside. Mina Scott would charm Uncle Barlow, perfect manners or not, for she was a perfectly charming sort of girl.

  “Maybe so, Fitz, but you have to admit she is a genteel sort of woman, well spoken and well read. And besides”—he shrugged—“there’s no one else to ask.”

  The truth of his words hit home. Pulling away, he strode ahead. There was no one else to ask, and if this didn’t work, how would he ever pay for his mother’s increasing care? Even with Mina Scott’s help, it would take a miracle for him to be named heir. He’d not even seen his uncle in over a year—a relationship he’d like to mend but didn’t quite know how for the shame that still haunted him.

  Last time he’d seen Uncle Barlow was when the man had bailed him out of gaol.

  CHAPTER THREE

  If there be aught that I can do to help or aid you, name it, and on the faith of a man who can be secret and trusty, I will stand by you to the death.

  Master Humphrey’s Clock

  It was a grisly kind of day. The type of gloomy afternoon that stuck in one’s craw and worked one’s teeth to keep the cold at bay. Autumn was such a fickle friend: warm one day, frigid the next. Today, November’s rude manners chased away the remnants of October’s warmth. Mina tugged her collar tight against her neck as she dashed down the street.

  Two blocks from the Golden Egg, she clutched her skirts in one hand and trotted up the stairs to a grey-stone lodging house. As soon as she ducked inside the entrance hall, she removed her veil and shrugged out of her black cape, hanging both on a peg near the door. The other ladies should already be here and wouldn’t notice her dark wraps, or she’d have to field a surplus of questions, the chief one being, Who died? Her mourning cloak and veil would be a good disguise on the street when she later waited for William, but here?

  Not at all.

  She hurried up the stairs, passed the first floor, and stopped on the second. Halfway down the corridor on the left, she paused in front of a door with chipped paint and rapped thrice—twice—once. The door swung open, and she entered the meeting room of the Single Women’s Society of Social Reform—which looked an awful lot like a bedchamber. The occupant, her friend Miss Whymsy, greeted her with a smile. The former governess was a plain-faced woman with steel-grey hair and posture that would make a marine look like a slouch.

  “Welcome, my dear.” Miss Whymsy pulled her into a prim embrace, smelling of lavender and well-used books. “We were beginning to think you might not make it.”

  “My deepest apologies.” She pulled away with a sheepish smile, for it had been her request that the meeting be moved to an hour earlier than first announced. “Father kept me later than I expected, and it was hard to beg off without rousing his suspicions.”

  “No apology needed. I am glad you are here no matter the time.” Miss Whymsy swept out her hand. “Please, have a
seat.”

  Mina crossed the small room to an even smaller sitting area. Three other ladies perched on chairs near the tiny hearth, soaking in what warmth could be had from the sparse bit of burning coal and from the teacups clutched in their hands. Mina took an empty chair next to Effie Gedge, one of her dearest friends. Her skirt hardly touched the seat before Effie leaned toward her and whispered, “I so hate to see another one go.”

  “Me too.” Mina’s gaze landed on the woman across from her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how Mary Bowman was holding up, this being her last meeting. Apparently, not too well, for after naught but a flickering smile, Mary stared into her teacup, as if all the courage in the world might be found there.

  Miss Whymsy settled on the last remaining chair and lifted her chin. “I call this meeting to order, ladies.”

  Next to Effie, Miss Minton, every bit as grey-haired as Miss Whymsy, chortled a “Hear, hear” and set her teacup on the floor beneath her chair.

  “Now then,” Miss Whymsy continued, “as you all know, today’s gathering is bittersweet. While we are happy one of our members is soon to be off on a journey of matrimonial bliss, it is always a bit of a sorrow to see one of our colleagues leave. Yet it is necessary if we are to remain the Single Women’s Society of Social Reform.”

  “Hear, hear,” Miss Minton rattled off again.

  Miss Whymsy lifted a brow at her before she shifted her gaze to Mary. “Miss Bowman, you have served the society well these past years, and we thank you for your service.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Mina and Effie said together.

  “Hear, hear—”

  “Millie.” Miss Whymsy skewered Miss Minton with a stare that could knock the fidget out of a child. “You do not have to ‘hear, hear’ everything I say.”

  “If it is good enough for Parliament”—Miss Minton bunched her nose, adding wrinkle upon wrinkle to her face—“I should think it is good enough for us.”