3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Read online

  It is my turn to smirk. “Lest you put me on too high a pedestal, you should know I did not understand one word the exhibitor said about that new machine.”

  A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, small, but it feels like a great triumph. Perhaps this little talk has smoothed some of the tension between us.

  Edmund looks past my shoulder, and something sparks in his eyes. He pulls from my touch. “Excuse me a moment, would you? I see the fellow who might be able to help me with number seven.”

  “By all means.”

  He strides away, and I am left as a solitary female island floating amongst a sea of men. I falter, but only until I lift up a prayer.

  God, I trust You to help me learn at least one thing about one of these machines.

  Then, throwing back my shoulders, I enter the fray. Nearby, another demonstration begins, and despite questioning looks, I make my way to the front of the crowd. Once again, foreign mechanisms clack into motion, but this time, I focus on only one part, not the whole. Thread travels from a spindle to an arm that reaches to grab another thread then pulls back. Quickly. Repeatedly. And slowly, I begin to see that those threads are now joined and grabbed by a different arm to be fused with another thread. The rest of the process is a magical mystery, but no matter. If nothing else, I have witnessed the spawning grounds of a new piece of lace and understand exactly where in this great monstrosity of a machine the whole process begins.

  With a new bounce to my step, I continue on. Nearing the end of an aisle, I am faced with either continuing a circle of this room or passing through an open archway into another room. I hesitate, pondering which way to go, when a raspy bass voice snags my attention. I turn toward the somewhat familiar sound. Advancing my way are two figures conferring together—one of which sports bushy side-whiskers, a creased face, and a wide nose … Mr. Richard Birkin. Our one and only meeting flashes back to mind, and I whirl, suddenly very interested in seeing the other room. I dash around the corner and flatten against the wall, in case they decide to come this way as well.

  In my hasty move, the swirl of my hem snags on a moving part of a machine. I tug the fabric back. It does not release. On the contrary, I watch in horror as inch by inch the equipment pulls in more and more of my gown.

  “Miss! Back away from there,” the operator growls.

  I try. No good. I am no match for at least two tonnes of iron. Pulled irresistibly forward, I stumble a step closer toward the grinding gears. Panic rises up my throat, tasting like acid.

  Uncaring if my skirt rips, I bend and yank with all my might—but the big machine will not let me go.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Edmund

  There is no hope. It will be a long, painful death. I should have cut my losses on seven long ago.

  I clap the machinist on the back. “Thanks for your information.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t have given you better news, Mr. Archer. Good day.”

  Wheeling about, I return to the exhibitor who promised me a fair deal on a new machine. Bella won’t like it, but so be it. Neither do I like that she’s met with a law clerk behind my back, nor that she’s not said one word about it all day. She clearly has her secrets. This will be mine. Besides, I cannot fulfill Lord Hampton’s order or Uncle Dickens’s request with my hands tied—which they will be if I continue to nurse seven along. Even then, there are no guarantees the old dragon will continue to work.

  I arrange to have the new machine installed a week from Friday. Seven will be junked and production will speed along. It’s the right thing to do. Expedient and necessary.

  So why the drag in my step as I set off to find Bella? I can practically hear her cry of opposition when she finds out I made the purchase despite her misgivings. Hold on—I cock my head. That cry is not my imagination.

  It’s Bella.

  I take off at a dead run, plowing through suits, pushing my way toward the sound. Fury pumps hotter with each step. God help the man who dares accost her.

  Ahead, a few men huddle, and as I draw closer, my blood turns to ice. Bella fights with a machine—and it is winning. She bends, tugging in a frenzy on a skirt that’s slowly being mangled between two gears. Much closer and it won’t be only fabric that is ripped and pulverized.

  God, no!

  The two men nearest her stand immobile, doing nothing but slack-jawed staring. Worthless cowards! The exhibitor dashes toward the off switch on the far end of the machine, but judging by the distance, he won’t make it before Bella’s flesh is snagged into the gnashing iron teeth.

  God, give me strength.

  I butt one of the men with my shoulder, knocking him out of the way, then lunge for Bella. Wrapping my arms tight around her, I tackle her. Fabric rips. We crash to the ground, Bella still in my embrace. She is safe. Thank God, she is safe!

  “That’s why women don’t belong here,” one of the spineless onlookers drawls.

  “Skirts ought to stay in the home, eh?” rumbles the other. “Though can’t say I mind looking at those shapely legs.”

  I ease Bella from me then shoot to my feet and level a malignant glower at the men. “Shove off.”

  Turning my back to the hecklers, I block Bella from any further untoward gazes, and lift her to her feet. The left side of her skirt is missing, nothing but ragged threads hang from her thigh on down. Indeed, the men were right. Her stockinged leg curves in all the right places.

  I’ve got to get her out of this lion’s den.

  I shrug out of my suit coat and wrap it around her waist. It’s the best I can do for now. Through it all she stands silent, face pale, eyes impossibly large and welling with tears. She doesn’t appear to be injured, but all the same I ask, “Are you hurt?”

  Fine white teeth bite her lower lip, a failed attempt to stop it from quivering, but thankfully, she shakes her head.

  I breathe out relief. “I am happy to hear it.”

  Behind us, the exhibitor lets loose a barrage of colourful curses. Though I wince to have Bella witness such language, I don’t blame him. It will take quite some time to disengage the fabric from the machine—time he could use in attracting new buyers.

  Bella peers up at me, and a single, fat tear slides down her cheek. “I am sorry. So, so sorry.”

  “There, now. All is well. Chin up.” I crook my finger and physically lift her chin. With my other hand, I brush away the dampness on her face. I am well practiced at drying Flora’s tears, but the feel of Bella’s warm skin beneath my touch twinges deep and low in my belly.

  I pull back, wary of the desire she never fails to excite, then notice the eyes of passing businessmen. Gleams of interest flare in their gazes. Though I’ve done my best at covering her exposure, a suit coat only drapes so far.

  I offer Bella my arm. “Let’s get you back to the hotel, shall we?”

  She says nothing, but her fingers rest lightly on my sleeve. I huddle close to the torn side of her gown all the way to the coat check. After retrieving her wrap, I help her into the woolen length of it. “Good thing you wore your long coat today. I cannot notice a thing.”

  “You are too kind.” She blinks up at me, still pale, and that concerns me.

  A little levity is in order, but how long it’s been since I’ve tried to coax a woman to smile. Even so, I force my own small smile and nudge her with my arm. “I have never known a woman yet who did not pine for a reason to buy a new gown, and now you have a good excuse.”

  “Oh, Edmund.” Her voice strangles—the opposite effect I was hoping for. “Thank you, for everything.”

  “No need to thank me. It is providence I came along when I did.” Once again, I offer my arm. “Ready to go?”

  She nods, and I shepherd her outside. She is close enough that I hear her soft intake of breath when we step through the door—and no wonder. It is a new world we enter. Gone are the blackened streets and gloom of a city coated in filth. Large flakes of white drift down from the heavens, and the snow gathers in a fluffy layer, forgiving the
many sins of soot and grime. Twilight adds contrast to the flurries, as does the glow of a nearby streetlamp, recently lit for the coming night. I must admit, it is an enchanting scene, one that makes a man feel reborn simply by virtue of its freshness.

  With renewed vigor in my step, I guide Bella over to the curbstone and crane my neck to spy a cab. There are two. Both are taken. I am tempted to frown—until a waft of smoky roasted chestnuts from a nearby street vendor hits my nose. My stomach rumbles, and I glance down at Bella. “Are you hungry?”

  She peers up at me. “Famished.”

  Sixpence later, we both hold a paper cone filled with blackened chestnuts, cracked open to reveal their creamy yellow filling. I nearly burn my tongue on the first one, but the earthy-sweet flavour is worth it.

  “Thank you.” Bella blinks. A snowflake hangs from one of her long lashes, a perfectly charming sight, and I smile. I’ve not forgotten her meeting with the law clerk, but somehow the sting of it doesn’t irritate quite as much.

  “You are very welcome,” I mumble between bites.

  “I hope you will forgive me for embarrassing you in there.” She nods back at the building. “I am discovering there is more to running a business than simply balancing numbers in a ledger.”

  She rubs behind her ear, a now familiar gesture—yet it turns my blood cold. Did she hit her head when I drove her to the hard floor yet is too ashamed to admit it? Gently, I pull away her hand and lean close, praying to God I will not see any blood. “Are you hurt?”

  She turns her face. “I am fine.”

  Little liar. With the crook of my finger, I guide her chin back to me and tilt her head. “I insist.”

  She stands tense beneath my probing, and as I brush back some loose hair and my finger rubs her skin, my muscles begin to clench as well. The curved welt of flesh beneath my touch is no recent injury. It is a scar—one her nervous habit has worn nearly smooth.

  Horrified, I drop my hand. “How did that happen?”

  A timorous chuckle chirrups in her throat. “Oh, you know. Clumsy me.”

  No. Not for a minute do I believe she caused such a wound, especially not with the way she averts her eyes. Someone harmed her. Someone she’s protecting … or is it, perhaps, self-preservation? A way to avoid confronting past hurts?

  “Bella.” I soften my tone and once again tip her face toward mine. “You cannot heal from that which you will not acknowledge. Who did this to you?”

  Tears well in her eyes but do not fall, and emotions rampage inside me at the sight. Would that I could kiss away all her anguish, to flatten whoever dared mar her tender flesh … to promise to protect her from ever getting hurt again.

  But I stand mute on the slushy street corner, waiting for her to finally open wide a door to her past that she need no longer hide behind.

  She clutches her cone of chestnuts so tightly, the paper crinkles. Her voice is crackly as well. “It was … it was Mr. White. He—his temper—” She sucks in a breath. “It was a relief when he died.”

  My heart thuds violently against my ribs. The cad! Though I’ve had my suspicions all along, this confirms it. The man was a monster. A lucifer. And so was her father for giving her over to such a brute. I clench my teeth, trapping a howl—but when Bella’s eyes widen at my reaction, repentance punches me in the gut. She’s seen enough rage in her life.

  I swallow the burning ember in my throat and rub my knuckle along the swell of her cheek. “I am sorry, so sorry, for what you must have endured.”

  She leans into my touch. “It is over now. Done. I do not dwell on it. Neither should you.”

  Sweet, brave woman! Every muscle in me yearns to reach out and pull her into my arms, but instinct warns that’s a danger—that this desire in me is a danger—for her and for me. No, the best way to protect her is to make the business succeed, give her the means to support herself, and hopefully begin to erase the stain left behind by Mr. White.

  I drop my hand and shove the last chestnut into my mouth, then crumple up the paper and toss it into the bin before I face her again. “Well then, I am glad you were not hurt from the machine or my rude rescue. Flora would be devastated were you not to pay her a visit on Friday.”

  “She is a dear girl.” Bella’s first smile since the skirt-tearing incident flashes as innocent as the falling snow. In the soft glow of the streetlamp, she is a picture with her now rosy cheeks and a halo of white coating her bonnet.

  A memory resurrects, one I thought I’d long since buried. Nine years ago, on a snowy evening just like this, we stood on a street corner, gazing at one another, our stomachs heavy with a holiday dinner and our hearts just as full with love. How young we were. Such dreamers. What would’ve happened had I grabbed hold of that dream instead of caving beneath the weight of her father’s?

  Banishing the question, I glance down the street for a hackney. Another one appears—yet again it is already hired.

  Bella shivers. No wonder. Cold air is likely creeping up beneath her cloak to her exposed leg. I wrap my arm about her shoulder and pull her close. It’s not a socially appropriate position, and if Birkin or Adams comes out and sees us thus, there will be wagging tongues to defend against, but I will not have her taking a chill.

  She raises a brow at me. “I am not a fragile flower that you must shelter me so.”

  “Perhaps I am the one who seeks a wind break.” I smirk while keeping my eye on the street, but I know I must give us both something else to think about other than the feel of our bodies pressed so close together. “How is the Old Lace Shop coming along?” I venture. “You never told me how you resolved your lack of men for renovating the building.”

  “Thankfully, I did not have to. The Birkin warehouse is ahead of schedule, and Mr. McGreary was able to use some of those workers. In fact, things are going so well that all shall be set to rights for the Christmas dinner I intend to hold—oh! I have been so preoccupied, I nearly forgot to invite you.” She gazes up at me. “You will come, will you not? You and Flora?”

  She can have no idea her question is a grenade, loaded and ready to blow. I tense and look away from the hope on her face, pretending to continue my search for a cab. “You are hosting a dinner at the Old Lace Shop?”

  “Yes. The five ladies who will work there have all agreed to attend, which is quite a feat since they have refused my previous overtures. Well, at least I hope and pray Hester will be well enough to attend.”

  She falls silent, and one by one my muscles loosen. Sweet heavens, that had been a close call.

  But then she continues. “I cannot wait for you to see it! In fact, Flora and I have already begun making decorations for the most festive Christmas dinner ever.”

  Refusing to look at her, I blow out a long breath. “I am sorry, but you know it is impossible for Flora and me to be there.”

  She pulls away from my side and stands square in front of me, lifting her face to mine. “Surely at Christmas you can allow one small visit.”

  I shake my head. “It is too risky.”

  “Were you not just telling me earlier today that one must take calculated risks?”

  “That is in business. I will not jeopardize Flora’s life.”

  “But the ladies are blind.” She throws out her arms. “They will not see her impediments, and they will love her for who she is on the inside.”

  “That may be, but it will not prevent other eyes from seeing her. I am her only protection, and I will not fail her. Flora will not be put into an asylum.”

  “Of course not, not with you as her father. And you are wrong, you know. You are not her only protection. Perhaps it is time you hand that job over to God, hmm? After all, you cannot keep Flora hidden forever.”

  I turn from her, desperately seeking a cab to escape continuing this conversation. Bella is right, and the knowledge of it hits me like a hammer to the head. Yet I cannot blame her for speaking aloud the heinous words that I’ve been trying to ignore these past seven years … I cannot keep Flora hi
dden forever.

  And that’s what worries me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bella

  A nagging suspicion that I am destined to fail at business follows me home from London. So does the snow. All of Nottingham lies tucked beneath a mantle of white, which is beautiful, but not quite as breathtaking as the view from the mullioned front window at Edmund’s cottage.

  Sitting with Flora, we make decorations for Christmas dinner, which is only two weeks away. Thus far, Flora and I have constructed orange pomander balls, ivy ribbons, and lace ornaments during my visits, which are now more frequent since Edmund’s time is overstretched at the factory. Today, we work on a fruit-and-nut garland, and I hold out my hand, waiting for the girl to pass me another raisin.

  She crams five into her mouth before offering me one. Her nurse will surely not be happy with me for allowing Flora so many treats. But when she murmurs a happy “Mmm” and lifts her face to the ceiling, supremely content, the thought of Nurse’s frown doesn’t matter. Should not such small ecstasies be allowed during the holiday season? Or for this overly sheltered little girl, any time at all?

  I stab the needle into the gummy dried fruit, pull the thread through, and tie it off. “There now.” I set down the needle. “Would you like to—”

  “Yes, sing it!” Flora bounces on her seat, her brown ringlets bobbing against her collar. A lopsided smile spreads wide and toothy. “Sing again!”

  Though singing was not what I’d been about to suggest, I cannot help but grin along with her. She is easily amused with my poor rhymes and asks for them frequently. I am helpless to deny such a passionate request, and so I begin: “Come holly, and ivy, and friends, and good cheer.”

  Flora sways in time with the meter.

  “For Christmas is coming, the best time of year!”

  “Yay!” She claps her hands and laughs, the warmth of which thaws the thin cracks in my soul. How I wish I could bottle up the child’s laughter and carry it around with me, opening it now and then for a draught of joy when needed.