3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 34

  As usual, no answer booms from heaven.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. The damage is already done. There is no sense in furthering this farce. Lowering my hand, I soften my tone. “I did not mean to imply you are a woman of imprudence. I simply meant that you …” Words knot my tongue, but which ones to say? What to hold back? How to protect my daughter and Bella’s dignity without harming either? Of necessity, my daughter is the greater concern. Bella is a shadow from the past, a woman I no longer know … so why the twist in my chest?

  “Come.” The directive is more of a growl than an invitation, but it cannot be helped. One does not easily recover from a potentially mortal blow.

  Please, God, may this not be a fatal blunder.

  Reluctantly, I sweep my hand toward the sitting room. “As long as you are here, let us settle our differences once and for all.”

  Her gaze pings from my face, to my hand, and finally toward the sitting-room door. Without a word, she turns and enters. Thankfully. Had she run out of here with fire in her step, I’d have had to track her down for Flora’s sake.

  Bella bypasses the sofa and crosses to the mantel then faces me, her hands folded in front of her. Her face, lovely as ever, tips upward slightly. Morning light from the window slips over the curve of her high cheekbones and slides across the determined slope of her nose. Her nostrils flare. She is on edge.

  Grinding my jaw, I cast a wild glance about the room, grasping for something—anything—to divert. The cut-glass water decanter will suit. I turn my back to Bella and set about pouring drinks.

  “Why did you come?” The question pours as freely as the liquid.

  “You were not at the factory. I came to see why.”

  “Well, now you know.” The decanter shakes in my grip as I set it back on the small table. It is in the knowing that all of Eden fell.

  Collecting both glasses, I face Bella and the moment I dreaded would one day come. “Flora is brighter in the morning, clearer of mind, less sleepy. I grant her an hour of my time before I put in twelve to fourteen at the factory.”

  Only Harnuckle, Baxter, Nurse, and Cook know this—and in the speaking of it, I am stripped bare. Naked. Cold and ashamed of the stark truth.

  “Here.” I stalk over to Bella and shove the glass at her. As soon as she grasps it, I retreat to the window. Better to look out at the first decaying leaves of autumn than the gleam of deadly pity in Bella’s eyes.

  “I did not know you had a daughter.” The accusation stabs me in the back.

  Mouth suddenly dry, I guzzle down the water and return the glass to the table; then I resume my post at the window. “No one knows. My late wife took the secret of Flora to her grave, God rest her.”

  “But why keep the girl a secret? I mean, obviously Flora has some … em … difficulties, but surely—”

  “There is no surely about it!” I turn away, seething. She can have no idea of the carelessness of her well-meaning words. “If it gets out that I’ve fathered a cripple, a child of insufficient mental capabilities, I will lose the trust of my buyers. First, for siring such an anomaly, and second, for not having the fortitude to shut her away in an asylum.”

  My tone rumbles like thunder in the small room, but I do not repent. The vileness of the unjust situation merits such a severe affront.

  Bella gasps, her fingers fluttering to her chest. “But that would be wrong in every sense of the word. You are her father! Obviously you love her. There can be no shame in that.”

  A bitter laugh rises like bile and spills from my mouth. “Have you yet to learn that life is not so simple?”

  Her lips tremble, and she reaches to rub behind her ear. “Yes, I suppose that I have.”

  Of course she has, after being ordered about by her father until the scoundrel married her off to the highest bidder. Bella is a smart woman. It doesn’t take long for a pawn to realize its lesser value. And that’s what we are. Naught but playing pieces the powerful move about at their whim. Would to God I’d learned that sooner.

  But the game ends here. Now. Leastwise for Bella, if I have any say in the matter. No one will accept a woman as a co-owner anyway, and one misplaced word about Flora—wouldn’t Adams and Birkin delight in playing that card against me. No. If Bella returns home to London, it will save us both a world of pain.

  I reach out tentatively and lightly rest my hands on the upper part of her arms. She stiffens but does not turn away.

  “The business world is a ruthless master, dictating even to the point of who you may love and who must be cast aside. Go home, Bella.” I rub my hands up and down, hoping to impress my words upon her heart with a soft touch. “Go back to London. I am sorry for the loss of your husband, but grasping on to this business holding of his will not bring him back.”

  “Back?” She yanks away from me, an unrecognizable hardness glinting in her eyes. “I would not wish that man back for all the queen’s jewels.” She whirls, her whole body trembling. “I grasp this business, Edmund, because I need this business. Need this job.” A sob chokes her words. “Desperately.”

  Need? I knew the tightfisted Mr. Venerable White to be shrewd and conniving in his politics and domineering in his management style, but had he truly left Bella nothing but one small business and expected her to run it as a man? What kind of brute had she been living with these past eight years?

  I stifle a growl. Blast Bella’s father! The selfish, greedy goblin. Giving her away to such a monster for the sake of his own political maneuvers.

  Once again, I reach for Bella, but before my fingertips touch her sleeve, I pull back. Am I not every bit as culpable for having listened to her father in the first place all those years ago?

  “Very well.” Defeat rises thick up my throat. “Though I do not know why God has seen fit to bring our partnership about, I confess that His ways are beyond what I can fathom. But here we are, for better or worse, though I suspect there is a whole lot of worse headed our way.”

  She turns, wonder lifting her brows. “Y–you will not contest the legality of the situation?”

  I could. I should. But what kind of life will Bella have without the means to support herself as a widow? I pin her in place with a fervent stare. “Will you not breathe a word of Flora’s existence?”

  “I will not.” A smile grows on her face, and she offers her hand. “Partners?”

  I hesitate. This is either the biggest mistake I’ve ever made or possibly my—our—salvation. Her fingers fit small inside mine. “Partners.”

  But as I pull away, doubt assails me, warning me that I will once again fail her. Fail myself. Fail all those in my employ who are counting on my provision. Which would mean the workhouse for me and Bella.

  And the asylum for Flora.

  October

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bella

  Three weeks later, the tentative truce between Edmund and me has solidified into a peaceful sort of pact. I don’t mention Flora—though my curiosity grows stronger with each passing day—and in return, Edmund endures my regular visits to the factory. Though he turned down my idea to institute a tea time for the workers, he grudgingly approved transforming a former storage closet into a small receiving room. It is not as grand a space as I envisioned, but it’s still an improvement over asking customers to stand in a cramped corridor.

  The sun shines radiantly as I walk to the factory this morning, though the breeze carries a chill that cuts through my woolen cape. I tighten my grip on the ledger I carry and turn onto Hollowstone.

  Two streets down, I veer to the right. Ahead, by the Old Lace Shop, are the five black lumps of rag and bone that I’ve come to care about. My steps quicken as I pull out some coins. The next gust of wind bows the women’s heads and flutters their tatty old bonnets. Winter will arrive soon, and these ladies will sit covered in snow, shivering. My heart twinges. I could gather them into my home during the day, but then they’d have no means by which to earn money. What a cruel career these women labour in, rel
ying on the good graces of others in the cold and shadow of the very industry that blinded them in the first place, for each had at one time been a mistress of hand-finished fancywork. All the countless hours they’d spent working in poorly lit factories, squinting at the fine weave of impossibly thin threads, not only stole their youth but their vision as well.

  But if lodging them is out of the question, I can at least offer a meal.

  I pause near the first woman. “How are we today, ladies?”

  Several faces turn toward me. All murmur a greeting. Martha, the one closest to me, adds, “‘Tis always a better day when you pass by, Mrs. White.”

  “God bless you, Martha.” I drop a coin into her outstretched palm and pass along the row of women, giving each a farthing and hopefully some measure of dignity by recognizing them individually. “Dorie, Alice, Anne.”

  My feet stop at the last woman, and I stoop to clasp Hester’s hand in my own. She reminds me of my dear aunt, long since gone, with her enigmatic smile and paper-thin skin. “God bless you as well, my friend.” I wrap my fingers around hers, securing the coin inside her grasp.

  With her other hand, Hester reaches and rubs the lace of my sleeve hem between her thumb and forefinger, gently, slowly, her face puckering the more she feels along its length. Her eyes—one milky, one not—seek mine as if she can see. “I’m grateful as always, missus. You know I am, and I don’t mean to offend, but there is something I must tell you.”

  I pull away, frowning. “What is it, Hester?”

  “There’s a flaw there, in your lace hem. Oh, it’s a fine bit of piecework, don’t get me wrong, dearie. But one of the threads ain’t quite right.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I lift the offending lace and inspect it. Cream-coloured threads weave in an intricate pattern, one of the finest samples Nottingham Lace and Hose produces. I requested the piece from Edmund. But I see no hole in the delicate design. No knots or … wait a minute. There. One fine thread is joined with another where it should be casting a line on its own. How in the world had Hester discovered the nearly invisible blemish?

  “You are right, Hester, though I can barely see it.” The wonder in my voice comes out breathy. “I confess I am amazed you can detect such a small imperfection.”

  “I thought I noticed it yesterday.” She taps her temple, near her eyes. “The sight may be gone, but we can still spot flaws a mile away, right, girls?”

  The other women chirrup an agreement, and my jaw drops. They all possess the same skill? The first stirrings of an amazingly wonderful idea unfurl in my mind. Naturally, Edmund will not be easy to persuade, but I have years of experience in facing conflict.

  I rise, buoyed by the prospect of bettering these women’s lives, now and in the future. “Ladies, I should like to invite you to my home for a hot meal each day at noon.”

  Surprisingly, Martha looks away, a few whisper amongst themselves, and Hester frowns up at me. “We might take yer coin, missus, for such is our employ at the moment.” Her chin lifts, a stray whisker poking out as bristly as her tone. “But we pays for our food.”

  My fingers fly to my necklace, and the rock-hard pearl reminds me of my own grasp for self-respect. How callous of me to think I can play God.

  “Forgive me, Hester. You are right. I shall see you tomorrow then, hmm? Good day, ladies.”

  Their farewells follow me as I set off for the open gates of the factory and head toward Edmund’s office. I am not to have an office of my own. Edmund thinks the workers—especially the men—will not take kindly to a female master. I hate to admit it, but I suspect he is right.

  Just as I am about to reach for the door, I hear a familiar low tone and turn my head. Striding across the yard from the loading dock, Edmund converses with another man—his foreman, if I remember correctly. But it is not the foreman who garners my attention. It is the tall, fine figure that Edmund cuts in his brown coat and long-legged trousers. Even after all these years apart, my pulse races at the sight of him. Apparently the feelings I thought dead and cold are simply banked beneath ashes and time.

  Both men dip their heads in greeting as they near me. Only Edmund speaks. “Good morning, Mrs. White.”

  “Mr. Archer. Mr. Franklin.” I nod to each in turn.

  Edmund faces his foreman, cuffing him on the back. “That’ll be all, Franklin. Oh, and keep a keen eye on Gramble. The fellow’s up to something, if I don’t miss my mark. And if you see that Moffit Scruggs slinking around near the gate, send him packing. I’ve had enough of his scavenging boys picking through what isn’t refuse.”

  “Aye, sir.” Mr. Franklin glances at me. “Good day.” Then he bypasses me and enters the scarred factory door.

  I offer the ledger to Edmund. “Just returning this. I believe I am up to date for this year now.”

  His fingers brush against mine as he retrieves it, and heat flares up my arm from his touch.

  “I trust you found everything in order.”

  “I am not here to find fault.”

  A sheepish smile curves his lips. “Forgive me. I am not used to sharing my records on such a regular basis.”

  “I don’t suppose you are. Mr. White was not one to be overly attentive as long as things were running smoothly.”

  A gusty breeze trails my words, shivering across my shoulders—or is it the unwelcome memory of Mr. White that chills my blood? It is hard to shake his brutal rage for any inconsequential error of mine. My gaze drifts to the puckered skin across my knuckles from the strike of a fire poker when I’d forgotten to have his brandy warmed. And that was but a trifle compared to my great failure at being unable to conceive. I fold my hands, hiding the scars, and stare at the gravel, desperately wishing to forget.

  “Were the years with him so very terrible?”

  Edmund’s voice is a sweet caress, but I cannot stop my fingers from inching up to my ear. I have no answer for him. Terrible doesn’t begin to describe the hellfire I’d lived through, and a bitter laugh surfaces. “Suffice it to say he was harsh.”

  “Blast it.” Sorrow thickens his tone, and he gently pulls my hand away. “If I had known what kind of husband he was, I never would’ve left you to his devices.”

  Sudden fury burns hot in my belly, and I yank away from his touch. “Why did you leave? You never even said goodbye. What kind of man does that?”

  A muscle jumps on his neck, sticking out like a rod of steel. “I couldn’t. It was part of the agreement.”

  “What agreement?”

  “Are we really having this conversation now?” He flings out his arms. “Here?”

  He’s right. The door could open at any time, ushering out curious ears, and if our voices rise any louder, the words will travel over to the loading dock where men heave crates into a dray.

  Even so, I jut my jaw. Too many questions have festered for too many years, and now that the wound is opened, it is better to purge the poison, no matter where it might spill. “Yes.”

  He blows out a breath, then with a light touch to the small of my back, he guides me to a quieter corner near the gate. When he faces me, pain etches lines in the squint of his eyes. “Very well, if you will not be put off. The night of the Watsons’ Christmas ball, do you remember it?”

  My breath hitches. How can I ever forget the magic of that evening? Dancing with none but Edmund, finding a shadowy nook where we stood beneath a ball of mistletoe, drinking mulled wine until both our tongues loosened and we whispered words of love. I’ve tried to evict the image of him gazing at me with such passion, all golden and heady in the light of the Christmas tree candles. Lord knows how I’ve endeavored to banish the endearments he’d spoken against the curve of my neck, his lips hot against my skin … but to no avail. That Christmas is branded on my heart.

  “I’ve relived that night a thousand times since,” I murmur.

  “Me as well, but I suspect for different reasons.” He plows a hand through his hair and looks away. “When I returned you home and you went off to your chamber
, your father called me into his study and gave me an ultimatum. If I continued to pursue you, he vowed to pack you up and send you to your aunt in Belgium. Then he threatened to systematically destroy my good name in every manner possible. I would lose everything, and while I cared nothing about my ruin, my ward at the time was my sister, if you remember. Destroying me would have destroyed her as well.” He glances back at me. “Without my provision, Amelia would’ve been on the streets, or worse, the workhouse.”

  I shake my head, horrified. “I had no idea.”

  His face hardens into a haunted mask. “I am not surprised. Your father was a master at his deceitful games.”

  I bite my lip. I’d known my father to be conniving in his business dealings, but this? It sounds rather extreme, even for one as wily as he. I lock gazes with Edmund. “And if you left—which you did—what did you gain?”

  He snorts, clearly disgusted. “You make it sound so easy, like part of my heart, my soul, wasn’t lost in the bargain.” His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches. And for some odd reason, this difficulty in telling me the truth endears him to me all the more.

  “I gained the promise of your father that your happiness and prosperity would be ensured by your marriage to a member of Parliament, but apparently your father was the biggest winner. He gained legislation opportunities that benefited his pocket.”

  My blood drains to my feet, and I sway. Edmund bolsters me up with a grip to my arm.

  “Are you saying”—the words quake out of me—“that my father married me to that monster for his own benefit?”

  Oceans of pity swell in Edmund’s blue eyes. “As I said, I never would have left you had I known.”

  I pull away from his touch. “And you? How did Father reward you?”

  “You’re standing in the midst of what I gained. Forty-nine percent ownership of Nottingham Lace and a yearly stipend for my sister until she married. There you have it. All of it. The whole sordid truth. I don’t blame you if you hate me now more than ever. God knows I deserve it.”