A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 10
Egerton nodded sadly. “Ah, well, unlike the excellent work you are doing to improve children’s lives at Field Lane, our parish workhouse is structured to rehabilitate lawbreakers, dodgers, and the laborers who came here to build the railroad and Grand Canal but are now out of work.”
The admission struck him full force. Berkhamstead’s situation was no different from any other, especially London’s. Prosperity had been gained at the hands of able men who, with high hopes banished, could no longer earn their keep. The workhouse was never a choice; it was a last resort.
“Should you like to see the workhouse,” Egerton said, “it would please me greatly to take you there while you are here.” He waved at a coachman whose face seemed as if carved of granite. The man hastened to grab Bart’s bag. “Come along, old chap. There is much to be done, and everyone is eager to meet you.”
“Everyone?”
Was Kitty as eager to see him as he was her? He doubted that she’d even given him another thought after they’d left London. Still, he found himself asking aloud the question that battered his brain. “Might that include your sister and Miss Castleton? Are they . . . in residence?”
“Quite so! Christmas is their favorite holiday. They wouldn’t miss the festivities for anything in the world. And if they are not at home . . .” He winked. “We shall hunt them down, win their favor, and secure an audience.”
Is that what I am doing? Hunting?
Kitty wasn’t a fox. He would never put her in such peril. She was a lady. He was beneath her station—not so far beneath her in birth and rank, but by virtue of his upbringing. She’d been raised gently while he’d been cast in iron. Furthermore, he detested the extravagances well-to-do gentlemen participated in during country parties, and Bart certainly did not desire to take part.
Kitty was a blueblood, her heritage the legacy of the dukes of Bridgewater and Sutherland, and the earls of Bridgewater and Wilton.
“They shall be delighted to see you, Bart, rest assured. As will the entire family.”
Tension filled Bart. “I wish I could share your confidence, Egerton. Your sister—”
Egerton burst out laughing. “Oh, this is comical!”
“What is?” he asked, thoroughly humiliated.
“You actually like her.”
He groaned. “Kitty is—” he grasped for the right words “—like no other woman I’ve ever met.”
“I daresay she isn’t!” Egerton patted him on the back. “You are my good friend. Now you understand why I have tried to introduce you to her for years. You are her match in every way.”
Was he? Ladies did not favor men who grew up in places with rotten floors and staircases. They were far and away above—and gladly so—from the squeaking and scuffling of gutter rats. Even if Kitty was fond of him and could find a way to excuse his shameful past, he doubted her illustrious father would.
“Come along.” Egerton’s declaration compelled Bart to pay more attention to his friend. “We shall miss Christmas if we tarry too long.”
He nodded, then entered the carriage and sat back against the squabs. Nervously, he removed his hat, praying for the strength to endure the revelry to come. Never in his life had he been in such a muddle. He’d come to Berkhamstead to put Kitty out of his system so he could get on with his life—and at Christmas, by Jove. What was he to do? How would he withstand it?
“How far is Berkhamstead Place from the railway station?” he asked, anxiety coiling inside him. He fingered the brim of his hat, longing for something to keep his mind and body occupied as the carriage followed the earthworks of the castle.
“About a mile through the prettiest sixty acres you’ve ever seen,” Egerton said. “If only you could make out the water in the castle moat from here. But not to worry, you’ll get a splendid view of the moat and bailey from the house.” Bart remained silent, allowing his friend to ramble on. “The castle is Berkhamstead’s crowning achievement. Quite an ordinary sight to the locals, as you might guess.”
“How old is it?” he asked.
“It dates back to the Saxons and William the Conqueror’s rise to power. After the death of the Duchess of York, it passed to three of Henry VIII’s wives. Hundreds of years later, the old grounds are home to a courtyard food kitchen. We feed about five hundred souls daily during the winter.”
“So many.” He glanced out the window, his chest constricting. Such a low number by London’s standards, and yet so incredibly high. “If there’s time, I should like to see the food kitchen.”
“I have finally got you here, so we’ll make time, my friend,” Egerton crowed.
That meant staying through Christmas.
Inwardly, he cringed. He wasn’t sure he could withstand the merriment when the anniversary of his parents’ deaths hit him so hard each and every year.
“Tell me about your home again,” Bart said, quickly changing the subject.
“It isn’t anything like Ashridge House—the duke’s residence—but it’s seen its fair share of historical figures.” Egerton had given glowing descriptions of the manse in the past, providing Bart a mental picture of Berkhamstead Place’s longstanding legacy. “Queen Elizabeth granted it to her keeper of the jewels for an annual fee of one red rose.” He winked. “Did I mention we have gardens full of roses in summer?”
Bart grinned. “So that you can continue to live there during Victoria’s reign, no doubt.”
Egerton laughed. “How I have missed your easy banter.” Lulled by Egerton’s jovial manner, Bart began to relax. “Truly, I have. I’ve had enough of dry humor and dull conversation.”
“Forgo the cockfights, drinking, gambling, and card games, my friend. Commit yourself to solid work and life shall never grow dull.”
“And turn my back on my clubs?” Egerton braced a shiver. “How should I live?”
“By focusing on what’s important.”
Egerton grinned. “I assure you, I never forget what’s important, and that is the happiness of a most beloved sister. She knows her own heart—obstinately so at times. She’s idealistic, set on helping those in the most miserable conditions. I applaud her tenacity, you know. And I can honestly say that I admire her. She certainly knows how to act upon the longings of her heart. Something I have yet to learn.”
The sound of Kitty’s voice as she sang to the children at Field Lane still lingered with Bart. “She certainly appears to be a compassionate woman.” He dared not say more for fear of giving away too much.
“With an equally generous and beautiful friend,” Egerton added soberly.
“Yes.” He studied Egerton carefully, noting the differences in him when he thought of Miss Castleton. “Is there something you want to tell me, Egerton?”
“Forgive me. My mind went elsewhere.” Egerton scowled, then pursed his lips. They sat silently contemplating the scenery for several moments, before he attempted conversation once more. “What do you think of the lime trees leading up to the house? I’ve always enjoyed the drive by them. So peaceful. If you know where to look, the trees almost appear to curtsy, allowing that first glimpse of Berkhamstead Place as it emerges over the hill.”
Bart allowed Egerton to continue to speak fondly of his childhood home, even though he could not reciprocate. He had yet to visit his grandfather’s house, but he had hired a solicitor to ensure its tenants were provided all they required. He glanced out the window as the immense stone architecture suddenly came into view.
Wings jutted out from the main brick house, going north to southeast, with chimneys and gables. Mullions capped the windows. Buttresses, an embattled parapet, and an arched entryway swathed in ivy added to the manse’s character. Egerton’s home was magnificent.
Bart leaned back, astonished. “You weren’t deceiving me when you described Berkhamstead Place.”
“When have I ever deceived you?” Egerton asked.
“Never.” Bart winced at the audible catch in his voice. He was a simple man used to butchers at their trays, tradesmen at their counters, schoolboys playing with marbles, and milkmen handling their pails while Egerton had grown up in luxury. He’d been bullied horribly by other boys when Egerton had made his acquaintance by coming to his rescue. Egerton had always been there. He knew Bart’s secrets and had never betrayed him.
As Bart counted his blessings, his friend shifted on the squabs. “Much of the original stonework was lost during a fire two hundred years ago. The northwest side of the house offers a glimpse as to how the manse once looked.”
Speechless, Bart could only nod.
“It is not as pretentious as it once was, I assure you,” he went on.
Bart could only imagine for he had no experience in these matters.
The carriage came to a stop in the courtyard, and the door to the conveyance opened. Egerton placed his hat on his head. “The time has come, old chap. Are you up to meeting my family?”
Bart adopted a languid pose to keep Egerton from seeing his distress. “Up to it?”
“To our quest!” The man’s complexion reddened with excitement. “We shall give them a merry chase.”
“Give who a merry chase?” He tightened his fists and blew out a noisy breath. “Egerton, I didn’t come to take part in parlor games.”
“Didn’t you?” His friend smirked as if he knew something Bart didn’t. “Ah, but you are here at last so there’s no need to argue. Tonight is Christmas Eve, and Kitty has finally convinced my father that you are real. I suspect you will find yourself warmly received.”
He wrinkled his nose, imagining he was probably more real than the earl chose to believe. But he refrained from speaking his thoughts aloud, deciding instead to use Christmas as a way to see Kitty and get financial support for the Ragged Schools in London.
I survived the Marshalsea and the workhouse. I can—and will—survive the next few days.
Thanking the coachman, Bart reached for his valise. A footman hastily took possession of it. “I can—”
“Allow me,” the servant cut in.
“Think nothing of it, old chap.” Egerton stared straight ahead. “It’s Tomkins’s job to offer assistance.”
Bart blinked back his unease, embarrassment quickly turning to annoyance. “I am perfectly capable of carrying my own valise.”
“No one said you weren’t.” Egerton brushed off his sleeves, then laughed as he put an arm round Bart’s shoulder. “By the by, my friend, you are no longer in Saffron Hill where a man’s greatest skill is his ability to stay alive. Our motto, ‘Virtute non armis fido,’ means ‘I trust in virtue, not arms.’”
Bart shrugged off Egerton’s arm as they entered the parapet and approached the great oak doors. “Where I come from, one masters the other.”
“Ah, but you are the master of your own destiny here.”
Before either of them could open the double doors, the portal opened wide, causing Bart to wonder what purpose the Florentine, cast-iron lion knocker served.
“Welcome home, sir.” A man dressed in black motioned for them to enter.
“Thank you, Hatfield.” As the butler closed the door and turned to greet them, Egerton let out a howl. “My old school friend, Bartholomew Fernsby, has finally come to call. I am quite pleased, Hatfield. Excessively happy.”
“It does my heart good to see you so, my lord.” Hatfield turned his attention to Bart, bowed, and then reached for his hat and cane. “And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I shall do everything in my power to make your stay hospitable.”
Bart bowed his head. “Thank you, Hatfield.”
“You will be happy to know Mr. Fernsby’s room has been prepared just as you requested, sir,” Hatfield said to Egerton. “Now, unless I can be of any more use . . .”
“No. We are quite at our leisure, thank you.” Egerton waved the man away.
Bart nodded to Hatfield, and the smartly dressed servant turned on the balls of his polished shoes.
“Psst,” Egerton hissed. “Hatfield.”
The butler spun back around in front of a very old, very ornate wooden staircase with turned balusters and molded handrails. “Yes, sir? Was there anything else?”
Egerton pulled Bart along until they were near the staircase. “Where are my sister and her friend?” he whispered to the butler.
“Lady Catherine and Miss Castleton are decorating the parlor, my lord.”
Decorating? Bart gulped. Could he withstand it? The answer was wedged beyond logic and reason, reassurance that feeling anything at all only solicited pain. But he was determined to see Kitty again. And by Jove, he would endure anything just to be able to purge her from his mind.
“Why so downcast, my friend?” Egerton tsked, his eyes brightening with pleasure. “The hunt is on!”
Chapter Eight
“Oh, Kitty!” Meg bolted up from an overstuffed chair, a tear sliding down her cheek as she gripped A Christmas Carol close to her heart. “Do you suppose Tiny Tim is going to die?”
“Meg!” Kitty dropped her arms to her sides, the greenery she held in her hands forgotten as its lengthy tail whispered against the Axminster carpet. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”
Meg flushed. “Well . . . he’s sickly and his parents can’t afford the care he needs because Mr. Scrooge refuses to pay Mr. Cratchit a larger salary.”
“It’s a miserable topic Dickens has visited often,” she managed to shrug and say. “Nevertheless, I firmly believe the boy will survive.”
“It’s a Christmas book.” Meg placed a protective hand over the book’s gold-leafed pages. “As such, it should have a happy ending.”
She gave Meg a sidelong glance. “I am sure it will. But we have much to do before we can finish the book.”
It was Christmas Eve, and they’d already spent the better part of the morning selecting evergreens from the Frithsden Woods to decorate the house. Now they were embellishing the parlor in preparation for Christmas dinner and the multitude of guests Mama had invited.
“The author knows his readers,” Kitty said, reassuring her friend. “Did he kill Oliver Twist?”
Meg shook her head.
“You see?” Kitty’s lips curved with kindness. “Mr. Dickens is an expert in the human condition. He wouldn’t dare kill Cratchit’s son. That would hardly encourage seasonal joy.”
“I suppose you’re right. But . . .” Meg placed the book on a side table and picked up the other end of evergreen. “It is just that we recently returned from Field Lane. My heart breaks for the children there, and everything Mr. Dickens has written is so convincing.”
“Undeniably.” Kitty stepped on the bookcase ladder to raise the greenery high enough on her end. With Meg’s help, they arranged the garland over the mantel. “There can be only one reason why Mr. Dickens allows us to believe the child’s frailty and the circumstances of Mr. Cratchit’s existence might come to a gloomy end: we’re meant to experience the full range of our full emotions. Christmas is supposed to be happy, the one night of the year all is clear and well in our eyes. People like you and I do not normally know there are those who subsist on so little every day.”
She frowned, remembering what she’d seen in London. The vast differences between herself and those living at Field Lane gripped her like a vise. “Knowledge. That is what everyone needs. Those who’ve never known want or despair will experience these hardships through Tiny Tim. I am certain that is Mr. Dickens’s intention—to pull our heartstrings and instill hope and sympathy for those in need.”
Meg clicked her tongue. “I suppose you’re right.”
Kitty smiled to herself as she fluffed the evergreen needles. “For the moment, Mr. Dickens is giving us a peek into the Cratchits’ lives. I am confident we will feel the utmost pleasure when the story comes to its conclusion.”
“You have eased my concerns so completely, now I cannot wait to finish the book.” Meg stepped down from her stool to admire their work and put her hands on her hips.
“How does it look?” Kitty asked, hopeful expectation filling her chest.
“Perfection,” Ambrose commented as he waltzed into the room, followed by another man. When her brother moved aside, she froze. It was Bart.
She blinked back her surprise. He’d actually come! Their eyes met and locked. Unbidden heat infused her cheeks. He was here, at Berkhamstead Place. But how was it possible? She clearly didn’t believe her own eyes.
“Have you nothing to say, Kitty?” Her brother’s voice broke through the haze swirling about her, and her heart chose to beat a rare rhythm. “My old friend has finally accepted our invitation and come to join us for the holiday.”
Merciful heavens! She’d never once considered that he actually would come. He never had before. But she found she was glad of it. For Ambrose’s sake.
“Forgive me,” she said, rubbing her sticky hands on her apron. “That is to say, I am surprised. I did not realize . . .”
Bart darted a look at her brother. “You didn’t tell her I was arriving today?”
Ambrose shrugged. “Didn’t I?”
He had, but she’d never believed it possible. Her brother had always been left with bitter disappointment. What could possibly have changed Bart’s mind?
Her pulse raced. Never before had she felt at such a terrible disadvantage. She was perched high above him on the bookcase ladder and felt thoroughly unprepared for the sensations pulsating through her at the mere sight of him. He looked as if he’d stepped out of her dreams, dressed as he was in a deep, rich-blue frock coat and trousers. His blue waistcoat, which was threaded with gold, and his russet cravat accentuated his brilliant-white linen shirt, giving him rakish appeal. He wore no hat and gazed up at her unreservedly, enabling her to see the inquisitive eyes that previously had been overshadowed by its brim.
Her knees quaked. He was so irresistibly handsome, his rugged looks a stark contrast to the men she’d previously courted. And when he spoke, his voice caressed her soul with a featherlight touch. Mercy me, how was she to speak, to think, with his smoldering gaze fixed on her?
