3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Read online

  “Shall we have a look at our garland?” Bit by bit, I hold up parts of the long string, inspecting the line for any misplaced gaps between nuts and fruit.

  “Pretty,” Flora breathes out, hushed and hallowed—and the reverence of it shames me. Would that I might be as awestruck in worship when gazing upon the beauty of the Lord. Oh, how much this uninhibited child inspires me simply with her zest for life. It is cruel to keep her from inspiring others. Why does Edmund not see that?

  “How festive Christmas dinner will be with the decorations we have made, and all because of you.” I tap Flora on the nose. “Now, will you help me gather this long snake and put it into the basket?”

  “Pretty snake, pretty snake,” she singsongs while we tuck away the length of the garland.

  We are just about finished when Nurse sweeps through the door then hesitates when barely a few steps inside the room. The lines on her face soften and a small “oh” coos out of her mouth. “If only Mrs. Archer had shown half as much care,” she breathes.

  My ears perk. This could be my chance to discover more about Edmund’s previous wife. Lord knows I shall never hear about her from him, for no matter how awful his marriage had been, he is far too gallant to dredge up ugliness.

  With Flora occupied, I meet the nurse’s gaze. “You knew Mrs. Archer?”

  “Aye.” A faraway light fills her eyes as she nods. “I was hired shortly after little Flora arrived in this world. Such a beautiful girl—despite what her mother said.” Nurse’s brows draw into an angry line. “Thank God Mr. Archer didn’t listen to her. Imagine! Sending off your own babe to an asylum. The woman could no more stop badgering him about that than she could leave off telling him how to run his business. She were such a scold. Such a—oh!” Nurse’s face blanches to the colour of a freshly boiled sheet. “Forgive me, missus. It’s not my place to …”

  Her head hangs. And no wonder. One word from me about her passionate slip and Edmund will send her packing.

  Hoping to restore the woman’s dignity, I avert my gaze. “Apology accepted. Your words will go no further than my ears.”

  “Thank you, missus.” Nurse clears her throat, and the spunk returns to her voice. “Come, Flora. It is time for your dinner.”

  Without even looking at the woman, Flora shakes her head. “Not hungry.”

  Oh, dear. I refuse to look at the nurse as well. The colour warming my cheeks is surely a giveaway of my guilt for ruining Flora’s appetite. Perhaps I should’ve gone with a pine centerpiece today and done the garland on my own—yet I cannot help but be thankful the error has provided me with a better understanding of Edmund’s past.

  Nurse’s shoes clip against the floor. “Come, child. Cook’s made your favorites, pork pie and a jam roly-poly.”

  Flora tucks her head, curling into the smallest possible ball on her chair—and it’s all my fault.

  Gathering my skirt, I kneel and ply Flora’s hands from her face. “Be a good girl, and do as your nurse asks, hmm?”

  Flora’s brows pull into a defiant line, a sure sign I’ve overstayed my visit. The four tolling chimes on the mantel clock agree.

  “I don’t want to eat.” Flora pushes out her lower lip. “I want to stay here with you.”

  “But I am leaving now, my sweet. I shall return, I promise.”

  She lurches forward, wrapping her arms tight around me and pressing her cheek to my breast. “I wish you could stay here forever and ever.”

  I swallow back emotion, the heart I once thought dead and buried from Mr. White’s abuse now impossibly full. The child clinging to me is life and love and heaven-sent. I press a kiss to the crown of her head. “I wish it too, love.”

  Flora pops up, her skull narrowly missing cracking against my chin, and flutters on her chair. “Tell Papa! He’ll make it so.”

  Nurse frowns.

  I laugh. “It is not that easy, darling.”

  “But Papa loves you!”

  “Flora!” Nurse barks the child’s name and marches to Flora’s side. “You will come with me this instant.” She pulls the girl to her feet, balancing a flailing Flora as she grabs the crutch leaned up against the table.

  I can only stare, stunned by Flora’s childish announcement. My pulse thrums in my ears. Though her words are merely the nonsense of a young girl, a strange desperation expands in my chest until I can hardly breathe. I wish it to be true.

  I wish Edmund did love me.

  “Beg your pardon, Mrs. White,” Nurse calls over her shoulder while struggling to keep hold of the wriggling child. “Flora’s a bit unpredictable but will be right as rain by your next visit. Cook’s put a basket of dinner for Mr. Archer by the door, if you wouldn’t mind delivering it?”

  “I will be happy to. Good day, and to you as well, Flora.”

  I doubt she hears me above her sobbing. She and the nurse disappear out the door, and as I gather my things and Edmund’s basket, I try to collect my crazed emotions as well. What a silly-heart I’ve become. Despite a well-placed kiss in a factory corridor, I am Edmund’s business partner—and it is best I remember that.

  Outside, the carriage I hired earlier awaits. The ruddy-skinned jarvey lends me a hand, and as we set off for town, I focus on the passing snowy wonderland instead of my jumbled thoughts. Tree shadows stretch long in the waning daylight, and the deepening blue light of the coming evening is soothing. By the time we near the factory, I am once again composed—until the carriage stops unexpectedly. The driver leaves his seat and paces to the front of the horse. What in the world?

  I venture out to where the man crouches and inspects the horse’s hoof. “Is there a problem?”

  “I hate to say it, but aye, miss.” He sets down the hoof and rises, facing me. “It appears Nelly here threw a shoe. Beg your pardon, I truly do, but I can’t take you any farther.”

  “I see. Well, I am only a few blocks from—”

  Wicked laughter and taunting voices erupt behind us. We both turn. Just off the side of the road, in a narrow gap between buildings, boys gather like a murder of ravens. Some throw balls of dirty snow laced with gravel. Others hurl awful obscenities. A few heft bricks.

  “Take that, ye scoff-faced devil!”

  “Freak of nature. You don’t belong on the streets.”

  “Better you weren’t born, a great snail-back like you!”

  “Wither arm. Blither man. Crawl back in yer hidey hole!”

  The object of their scorn moans. Between breaches in the boys’ semicircle, a lump of rags rises, trying to stagger off. He is a hunchbacked man with one arm and leg shorter than the other. But his movement only froths the attackers into more of a frenzy. A brick catches him on the brow, and his head jerks aside.

  I clutch my hands to my belly, my heart sinking. Ugly memories rush up like bile, and suddenly I am once more the one cowering before my husband’s raised hand.

  Sucking in a breath, I turn away from the memory and grab the driver’s arm. “Do something. Please. Stop them!”

  “Ahh, now, miss.” He chuckles. “Just boys havin’ a bit o’ fun. If ol’ gnarly Ned doesn’t want so much attention, he shouldn’t have come out so early. ‘Tisn’t full dark yet. It’s a hard lesson, but one I warrant he’ll remember from now on.”

  Horrified at his callousness, I retreat and grab the two baskets from the cab. Perhaps Edmund is right in keeping Flora well hidden. Too easily can I envision those same boys torturing her, and rage burns a hot trail up to my scalp. Though they outnumber me, I cannot abide such a great injustice. I grip the handles so tight my hands shake, and I whirl from the carriage. If I rush the boys and swing baskets at their heads, it will pull their attention off the defenseless cripple. And once I have gained their notice …

  Well, I’m not really sure what I’ll do then.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Edmund

  After thirty minutes, I’ve broken four pen nibs and bitten one of my nails to the quick, but no answer rises from the columns of numbers. I wad
up the paper on my desk and throw it into the basket. Meeting Lord Hampton’s order will be tighter than I like, the last panels for his windows coming off the loom at midnight on the day before Christmas Eve, and that’s with the new machine arriving in three days … or is it two? I press the heel of my hand against my nose and heave a sigh. Mrs. Harnuckle may be right. Perhaps I am mad with sleep deprivation. Since my return from London, it is all I can do to keep the factory running smoothly fourteen hours a day, with an additional three hours seeing to the proper handling of all that’s been produced. Given the extra load, I’ve had to open the old warehouse to use as storage.

  Leaning aside, I pull out the top drawer and retrieve the invoice for the new machine, dated with a delivery of December 14. Two days, then. The tightness in my temples loosens. Sweet mercy, why had I not thought to read this sooner? The arrival of the new loom a day earlier than I remembered means the order will be filled faster than I reckoned. Good news, that. And bad. I’ve yet to tell Bella of the purchase. The time’s never been right, but I’ve not the luxury of waiting anymore. I shall tell her when next we meet.

  I scrub a hand over my face, hoping the action will wipe away some of my weariness, then jump when a rap on my office door startles me.

  In peeks Baggett. “Lord Hampton here to see—”

  Lord Hampton himself pushes past Baggett and charges into my office. “Niceties are for women.”

  His cheeks are nipped red from being outside—or is that anger? Judging by the way Baggett vanishes in a flash, I’m guessing the latter.

  “My lord, this is a surprise.” I rise from my chair. “Please, take a seat. May I offer you—”

  “No need, I shall not be staying long.” The colour on his face deepens to a murderous shade, and he cuts the air with his hand. “I thought we had a deal, sir.”

  “We do,” I drawl, desperate to figure out what the devil has raised his doubts. Nothing comes to mind.

  He advances to my desk and slams his fists on the tabletop, rattling the inkwell. “Listen here, Archer, if you are not going to meet my order in time for Christmas, then be a man and tell me now.”

  Confusion vies with the fatigue fogging my brain, and I shake my head. “What makes you think I will not?”

  Lord Hampton raises his chin and stares down the length of his nose. “I have word that you are down a machine.”

  “Whose word?”

  “Not that it signifies, but my valet’s brother is some sort of kin to Mr. Birkin, your competitor. Though he is but a servant, I trust Davis with my life.” Hampton straightens and folds his arms like a shield in front of his chest. “There, I have been more than forthright with you. I expect the same courtesy in return.”

  Heat floods me. Birkin! I might’ve known.

  Turning from Hampton, I rake my fingers through my hair and stare out through the production-floor window, my gaze darting from one labourer to the next. Which worker is Birkin’s rat? As quickly as my eyes land on the newest worker, I discard the idea. In all the questioning I’d done upon my return from London, my distrust turned out to be naught but miscommunication. For all the man’s suspicious appearances, he had been legitimately recommended by Franklin. But if the spy isn’t him, then who?

  “As I suspected, then,” Hampton growls behind me.

  I whip back, fueled by a keening rage that Lord Hampton’s trust in me has been broken. This time Birkin went too far. “The truth is, my lord, that yes, one of my machines is not operating at optimum performance.”

  Hampton’s upper lip curls. “Then why the blazing fires did you not tell me sooner! I could have—”

  I shoot up my hand, blocking further retort. “I assure you I have kept a strict eye on production, and had I any doubts, I would have come to you immediately. The situation with the machine in question is not only soon to be rectified but improved upon. In a mere two days, a new loom is arriving, one that works at twice the speed.” I snatch the invoice and hold it out. “Would you care to see the proof?”

  Hampton’s blue eyes drift to the paper then back to me. “Are you saying my concerns are unfounded?”

  The question is a loaded pistol pointed straight at my head. If I say the man was in the wrong, he will be offended. Yet affirming his concerns as valid will only heighten his doubt. There is no safe ground on which to stand.

  So I widen my stance and drop the paper onto my desk, praying to God for the right amount of candor and humility. “I admit there was an element of truth to your trepidation, but it was not the full truth. You did right in coming here; yet as you see, there is naught to be agitated about. Barring an act of God, there is nothing that will keep me from meeting your order.”

  “Well,” he gruffs. It’s more of a coughing sound than a word, but the lines on his face visibly soften. “Very good, then,” he mumbles. “Carry on.”

  Lord Hampton bobs his head in a curt nod then pivots.

  But before he can exit, I step to the front of my desk. “Pardon me, my lord, but I have a small request.”

  He turns back, one brow arched. “Which is?”

  “I would appreciate if you would keep to yourself the information about my new machine. I have not yet told my workers of the arrival, and several will not be happy about it, for they will lose their jobs.”

  His brow sinks to a dip. “Why not tell them now?”

  “Remember the Bankside riot?” It’s a moot question, for he must. Everyone in a twenty-mile radius heard of it. It’s a devious query, yet I ask him anyway, hoping the question brings to mind bloody images.

  “An ugly affair,” he growls, his big head bobbing.

  “Indeed. The mistake made by Bankside was in allowing those he was going to let go to continue working after he told them. Those men spread their unrest and all manner of lies to the others. Bankside did not stand a chance.” I advance a step, meeting Hampton’s gaze. “It will be a blow to the two I must let go, for they need the money, and so I intend to keep them on as long as possible. But the morning that machine arrives, they will be barred from the factory. Once production increases, if all goes well, I hope to hire them back within a few months’ time.”

  Hampton rears back his head. “You are an astute businessman, Archer. Forgive me for ever doubting you.”

  “I take no offense, my lord. As you well know, business is an exacting master and not for the faint of heart. You were right to question.”

  “Good man.” He nods. “And good day.”

  Lord Hampton breezes out of my office, leaving behind a waft of bergamot. I blow out a long, low breath. That was a close call.

  Mind whirring, I stride back to the production-floor window to make sure seven is still running. Gramble stands to the side of it, arms folded and head bent as if he’s monitoring the swing arm. I know better, the slackard. Is he Birkin’s spy? I choke on the thought and cough aloud. No. Gramble is many things—lazy, dissolute, all bluster and blowsy—but I do not think him savvy enough to pull off such espionage, nor do I believe him or his family adequately upstanding to be related to Lord Hampton’s valet. Besides which, Gramble wouldn’t want his job to end, which is what would happen if Hampton pulled his order. No, it must be someone else.

  Once again my thoughts turn toward the new man, hired so recently by Franklin. Was Franklin thorough in checking the man’s references? I knead a muscle at the back of my neck, entertaining the possibility—but what am I thinking? Of course Franklin was thorough. I am wasting time with such doubts.

  I turn from the window and stalk out the door, keen on locating my foreman. He’s not got the time to spare either, but between the two of us, perhaps we can uncover the culprit.

  Before any more of my trade secrets are laid bare.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bella

  Thank God for constables, and I say as much to the officer in the long black coat who escorts me to the factory gates. Had he not come along and chased off the boys before I rushed at them like a ruffled rooster, who
knows what would’ve happened?

  “Here ye be, miss. Good day to ye.” He tips his hat and strolls away, the baton attached to his belt swinging with his long strides.

  I enter the yard and head for the main building, scurrying past one of the errand boys who lights the outdoor lanterns, staving off the gathering darkness. Though I try to dismiss my unease, the violence I witnessed back on the street still troubles me. How I wish I could help that hunchbacked soul dressed in rags and cursed to venture into public only when covered by the cloak of night.

  “You cannot save the world, you know.”

  Edmund’s admonition barrels back from weeks ago, and I grip the railing as I ascend to his office. He is right. I am not God. So why do I continually try to be? Shame flashes heat up my neck.

  Oh, Lord, forgive me for dashing headlong into things, trying to right what is rightfully Yours to govern. Bless that crippled man with Your protection, for You are afar better guardian than I could ever hope to be.

  A new lightness quickens my steps. I don’t know for sure the old fellow will never again meet with such cruel taunting, but I do know that God is good and I may safely trust in His provision, for has He not saved me out of affliction time and time again?

  I set down my basket containing the garland and rap on the door to Edmund’s office. Just like the first week—which seems a lifetime ago now—there is no answer.

  I knock once more. “Edmund?”

  Nothing.

  I purse my lips. Traipsing through the whole of the factory in search of him does not appeal, yet he surely must be hungry and in need of the dinner I’ve brought. Perhaps the foreman, Mr. Franklin, knows of his whereabouts, or— La! Silly me. More than likely Edmund is wrestling with machine number seven, and there’s no better way to find out than to peer over the entire production floor from the window in his office.

  I reach for the knob and open the door, keeping it wide so that a swath of light from the corridor shines inside. I cross to the big glass window and peer out at a winter wonderland. Thread dust hovers in the air, made all the more magical by the light of the glass-globed lamps.