3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 37

  His praise scalds my ears, but even more scorching is the admiration deepening the blue in his eyes. My throat closes. There’s no way I can admit to him it is primarily by my own funds that the building will be renewed.

  “How is it coming along?” The interest in his voice indicts me further.

  “Actually,” I drawl, desperately trying to ignore my conscience, “that’s why I’m here. I’ve hired a Mr. McGreary to begin renovations, but he is short several workers due to the Birkin warehouse construction. I should like to borrow two factory men to send over to him for the next eight weeks or so.”

  Edmund shakes his head. “Sorry, but I cannot spare any. Not now.”

  I press my lips into a thin line of challenge. As majority owner, I don’t have to ask him permission before acquiring the workers on my own. But neither do I wish to become the overbearing tyrant my husband was. Compromise seems the best solution. “What about half days, then? If I use four men instead of two, but each for lesser hours and taken from different duties, the loss at the factory should not be felt as keenly. And I only need them until Christmas.”

  The vein near his temple pulses. Not a good sign. Why is he being so obstinate?

  “Allow me to be plain.” He rakes his hand through his hair with a sigh. “I’ve upped the hours here. Every man, woman, and child is putting in fourteen-hour shifts. Even were you to solicit the help of a few men for after hours, I doubt they’d have the stamina.”

  Fourteen hours? Women and children? I suck in a sharp breath, and the ivy leaf I’ve been clutching drops from my fingers. “That sounds rather inhuman. Why are you driving them so hard?”

  His eyes narrow at my accusing tone. “I received an order from Lord Hampton, one that will finally afford the workers increased wages come the new year. It is an opportunity that can make or break us. All of us.”

  I bite my lip, chewing on the information. An order from a peer is an unexpected boon. Lord Hampton could have gone to any of the other businessmen I’d solicited last week, yet he’d come here. This is no small thing.

  But my stomach twists at the thought of the workload the women and children must carry. “I understand, I truly do, yet how can you expect them to toil for so long each day?”

  “By instituting one of your ideas. Come.” He turns down the passageway and motions for me to follow. “I have something to show you.”

  I hasten after him, mentally riffling through all the suggestions I’ve shared with him over the past month. The new filing system, perhaps? Or maybe he’s provided the hand-finishers with the extra oil lamps I recommended?

  He leads me through a door and down a few stairs to a storage room filled with crates. A double-wide opening on the other wall ushers in the cool autumn air, and my jaw drops. In that space, upturned wooden boxes form a serving table of sorts. On the outside, workers shuffle by, receiving steaming cups of tea from one of the errand boys on our side of the crates. Another boy offers a splash of milk from an old porcelain pitcher. The scent of orange pekoe wafts deliciously on a crisp breeze, and warmth flares in my chest.

  Edmund turns to me. “This is all made possible by that error you found in the ledgers. The extra funds you discovered—albeit small—were enough to purchase tea and milk. It’s not much to give in return for the hours these people work, but hopefully it helps.”

  I peer up at him, touched at his show of compassion. “You do care for them.”

  His brow folds, weighted by sorrow and years and too many unspoken hurts I cannot fathom. “I am not the ogre you make me out to be.”

  Ogre? No. He is many things, this man of foibles and fallibilities, but he is certainly not the same sort of fiend I lived with for eight years. “I own I have harboured unkind thoughts toward you, but never once have I thought of you as such.”

  “Not even when I left without saying goodbye?”

  “Well.” My mouth quirks. “Maybe then.”

  He reaches for my hand and squeezes. “Dare I hope you have forgiven me?”

  His bare palm presses against mine. My first urge is to pull away. To run. To hide. An ingrained behaviour after years of Mr. White’s harsh touch.

  But a secret part of me bids me stay, and the longer I stand there, holding his hand, the more my anxiety fades. Like the starting up of one of the great machines in the workroom, my pulse stutters at first then takes off. It is a queer feeling, forgotten yet not unwelcome, and I cannot stop the smile that curves my lips.

  “Does not our God forgive us even to the point of death?” I squeeze his fingers in response. “I can do no less. Besides, we were different people then. Young. Foolish. Let us leave the past behind.”

  He stands so close, the warmth of his breath brushes across my cheek, and my heart flutters. The space between us charges with prospect.

  “To the future, then?” A husky promise lowers his tone.

  “To the future,” I murmur, a strange hope rising from the ashes of my heart. For the first time, I dare to believe there might just be a future for us. Is this strange convergence of events—Mr. White dying, me choosing to manage a small manufacturing company—a God-given second chance for the love Edmund and I once shared?

  Slowly, he lifts my hand and dips his head. It is insane how much I want to feel the press of his lips against my skin.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir. Urgent message.” The clerk’s voice violates our sacred space.

  Edmund wheels about, dropping my hand, and nods at Mr. Baggett while retrieving the offered note. As he scans the paper, the blue of his eyes deepens to a stormy grey sea, quite the contrast to the paling of his face. Something is very wrong.

  “What is it?” The question barely makes it past the sick tightening in my throat.

  Without a word, he crushes the note in his fist and stalks out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Edmund

  Move. Fast. Don’t think. Just move.

  Strange how my legs function when my heart is dead-still—and it may never beat again if I don’t reach home at breakneck speed.

  “Wait!”

  Bella’s frantic cry stabs me in the back, but slowing my pace is out of the question.

  I shove open the main door and dash across the factory yard to the gate. Time is my enemy. It will be faster to hire a carriage than waste precious minutes harnessing my horse.

  Out on the street, I crane my neck, praying to God for a cab. Sunshine breaks through a cloud, blinding me, and I choke back a curse. How dare the sun shine so brilliantly when my world teeters on the edge of blackness?

  Oh, God, get me there in time.

  Footsteps pound the cobbles behind me. Honeysuckle wafts over my shoulder, followed by Bella’s “Edmund, please.” Her hand rests on my sleeve, turning me toward her. Worried brown eyes search mine.

  “I know something’s wrong. Tell me.”

  Words snarl into a ball in my throat. I cannot bear to speak aloud what I read in the note.

  “I will not be put off.” The jut of her jaw concurs.

  I swallow, fighting against the irrational fear that naming the crisis somehow guarantees a tragic end. “Flora is missing.” The words kick me in the gut, stealing my breath.

  Bella’s too. She gasps. “Gone? But how?”

  “I don’t know.” My hands curl into fists. I want to punch something. Do something. But I am useless standing here in the middle of a dirty street while my daughter might even now be crying or bleeding or both.

  The clip-clop of a horse rounds the corner—harnessed to a cab. I thrust my hand into the air and wave. “Here!”

  Bella peppers me with more questions. Each one settles under my skin, prickly and hot. I have no answers, so I busy my hands with retrieving coins to pay for the ride. It is cruel to ignore her, but necessary.

  The jarvey stops the coach in front of me, and I offer up the money. “Bright-horn Cottage. Quickly!”

  I turn to the door. Bella is already there.

  “What are you
doing?”

  She yanks the door open. “Helping you look for her.”

  “No.” I shake my head. The more people involved in Flora’s life, the greater chance the secret of her will be exposed. “You should go home.”

  She grabs the handle in one hand and her skirt in the other, tossing me a look as she hoists herself up. “Who else is going to help you? Your old butler couldn’t hear a child whimpering even with his ear trumpet, and your housekeeper and the nurse both lost track of Flora to begin with.”

  A sigh rips out of me as she disappears inside the carriage. It is faster to climb up behind her and shut the door than to argue. Besides, she is right. Another set of eyes scanning the woods surrounding the cottage will be a boon.

  I settle next to her, and the cab takes off, not fast enough to my liking, though at this point anything short of flying is a snail’s pace.

  Bella looks over at me, her eyes impossibly wide and shimmering with compassion. “She can’t have gone far.”

  Of course she’s right. How much ground can a seven-year-old hobbling on a clubfoot and a crutch truly cover? Even so, I turn my face and stare unseeing out the window. A small brook runs behind the house. If Flora makes it that far, it won’t take much—a misplaced stone, a slant in the path—to knock her off balance. She cannot swim.

  It is a terrifying prospect.

  Rubbing my temple with two fingers, I close my eyes. “I cannot stop thinking about her being afraid. Lost. Alone.”

  “Look at me, Edmund.” Bella pulls my hand away and wraps both of hers around my fingers. A bold move, one that draws my attention.

  “We will find her.” Her gaze holds mine. “With God’s help, we will.”

  The fortitude in her stare catches me off guard, and I study her face. The strong line of her jaw. The determined set of her full lips. This is not the same fragile young woman I once knew. This is a lioness, confident in her faith—and more beautiful than ever.

  I don’t squeeze her hand in return, but neither do I pull away. “Flora hasn’t stopped speaking of you, you know. Not since that day you came to the house. She calls you the ‘pretty lady.’ I should have listened to her. Why did I not?”

  “What do you mean?” Fine lines pull together on her brow. “Listen to her about what?”

  “She wanted to see you again. Threatened she’d run off and find you herself if I didn’t bring you to her.” I shake my head. What a dolt. I should have seen this coming. “But I didn’t take her seriously. If Flora gets hurt, it will be my fault.”

  “Blaming does no good.” Pain thickens her voice, and she clears her throat. A slow, wry smile quirks her mouth. “A lesson I learned the hard way.”

  Guilt upon guilt presses against my chest, a deep ache, crushing my spirit. I failed this woman every bit as much as I’ve failed my daughter.

  I withdraw my hand from hers and once again face the window. Bella whispers prayers, and I hang on to each word like a lifeline. Her faith-filled murmurings give me something else to think on than the hellish image of my broken little girl floating facedown in the water.

  The cab finally stops in front of my home, and I jump out, not wanting to spare the time to assist Bella but offering my hand to her anyway. Once her feet land on the gravel, I flip another coin up to the jarvey—for indeed, the driver has made good time—then stalk toward the cottage.

  Mrs. Harnuckle flies out the door, wringing a towel in her hands. She stops short in front of me and bows her head. “Oh, Mr. Archer, it’s my fault, sir. Nurse asked me to keep an eye on the girl while she used the necessary, but my bread were burning. I tended the oven when I should’ve been tending Miss Flora.” One by one, tears fall from her cheeks and hit the ground. “I’ll pack my things at once.”

  I rest my hand on her shoulder. “No need. You’ve learned a hard lesson and blaming does no good.” I glance over at Bella then jerk my gaze back to the cook, anxious to be out on the hunt for my girl. “Which way did Flora go?”

  Mrs. Harnuckle’s red-rimmed eyes lift to mine. “The back door were open, sir, so like as not she hied it off to—” A sob rends her voice to a howl.

  Bella grabs my sleeve. “To where? Where might Flora be?”

  “The river.” I take off at a dead run.

  My little girl’s name rips from my throat as I charge into the woods, my desperate shouts violating the sanctity of the autumn morn. My wild steps churn up leaves—but there is no evidence of any other wide swath of disturbance on the ground. Did Flora come this way? Ten paces later I slow my mad pace. No. The leaves here are markedly undisturbed, untouched by a crutch or a crippled foot.

  I turn off the path and bat my way through brush, not that Flora could’ve managed such a feat, but it is the shortest route to the water. I must see with my own eyes that my girl is not forever trapped grey and lifeless beneath the flow.

  I stumble to a stop on the bank. At this time of year, the river runs shallow and murky. A felled tree troubles the waters to my left, but other than that, no broken little body inhabits the water.

  Nearby, footsteps rustle through the leaves, followed by Nurse Goodfinch’s warble. “Flora! Flora!”

  The woman rounds a bend, and I hail her. “Any sign?”

  “Nothing, sir.” She twitches her head like a nervous bird. “I’ve searched up and down the banks at least a half mile each way. She can’t have gone farther than that.”

  “Agreed.” A scowl weights my brow. “She can’t have come this way, then. Let us—”

  “Edmund!” Bella’s voice—from the direction of the house.

  I bolt, leaving Nurse Goodfinch in my wake. I know in my gut that Bella has found something.

  As I break through the wood’s edge, my knees weaken and I stumble. Bella stands but ten paces away from me, holding hands with a lopsided, smiling girl. I gather Flora in my arms and lift her high, swinging her around, her shrieks and laughter a salve to my soul.

  Then I stop and study her sweet face, looking for any hint of scratches or scrapes. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  She giggles. “No, Papa. Silly Papa!”

  I crush her against me, relief making my arms and legs jittery, and glance over at Bella. “Where did you find her?”

  She shrugs and tips her chin. “Sometimes when the world isn’t going your way, a girl just needs to hide. I looked where I would’ve hidden were I a young girl bent on being alone.”

  Her logic makes no sense to me. “And where might that be?”

  “Under her bed, with her kitty and a handful of stolen biscuits.”

  I tilt back my head and eye Flora. “Is this true?”

  Teeth she’s not yet grown into gleam white in her huge grin. She unwinds one of her arms and reaches toward Bella. “You brought the pretty lady, Papa!”

  I heave a great sigh. How can I be angry with that? “Yes, Flora. I brought the pretty lady.”

  Indeed. The consequent smile on Bella’s face lights the world.

  Clutching Flora tightly with one arm, I retrieve her crutch and set her down. Once she’s steady, I kneel in front of her, forcing a stern edge to my voice. “Next time you hide under your bed, you must first let Nurse or Cook know, am I understood?”

  Flora’s grin wavers, but only momentarily. She nods then peers up at Bella. “Will you stay with us now? Forever and ever?”

  Heat burns a trail up my neck. I don’t dare look at Bella. Instead, I crook my finger beneath Flora’s chin and guide her gaze back to me. “No, Flora, Mrs. White cannot live with us. But I think, perhaps, I can persuade her to stay for lunch. Would you like that?”

  My little girl squeals. Oh, how easily she is pleased. Would that we all might know such uninhibited joy at naught but a shared bowl of soup.

  I press a kiss against Flora’s brow then rise and face Bella. “Do you mind?”

  “There’s nothing I’d like more. Come, Flora.” She offers her hand, and the two of them turn and head toward the cottage.

  I stare after
them, unable to move. Bella’s fingers entwine with Flora’s, yet she does not tug the girl along nor slow inordinately. She is a gentle encourager with my girl, leading yet allowing the child to hobble along at her own pace. The sight does strange things to my heart. Flora would flourish with a mother’s touch … with Bella’s touch. I would flourish beneath Bella’s touch.

  But after the dismal failure of my last marriage, am I prepared to take another wife?

  November

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bella

  November is a melancholy month, the gloomy space between summer past and Christmas future. Usually it drapes over me like a burial shroud. This year I laugh in its face.

  Even now I can’t help but smile to myself as the cab rumbles along Nottingham’s streets on my way to visit Hester. Since Flora’s disappearance, Edmund allows me to attend the girl each week, and my Friday mornings with her have transformed me. Her lopsided grins and joyful disposition are infectious. As the cab rounds a corner, I pray I will be as merry a catalyst of cheer for Hester. According to the blind ladies stationed in front of the Old Lace Shop, the dear woman’s cough has landed her in bed.

  The cab rolls to a stop, and I collect the basket near my feet. As I step out, my hand rises toward my nose, but I force it to stop midascent and instead tighten my fingers around the pearl resting over my heart. Dung, filth, and despair permeate the air in this part of town. Betty will be none too happy when I arrive home tonight, reeking of the slum.

  I enter the narrow throat of a passage that leads to Stranglebeck Alley. The stink is worse in here, and I clutch the basket to my chest, trying not to breathe. Clearly the men of this neighborhood are not familiar with a chamber pot.

  The passageway opens into a grim courtyard that easily rivals a London rookery. Squalor lives here. So do rats. A fat grey rodent snuffles along the drainage gutter, not even bothering to look up at my arrival. All my good intentions to bring light to this dark nook of the city slowly dim. Stench or not, I inhale deeply for courage.