A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 12
Yes.
“Come,” she said, a flutter in her belly. “Let us finish decorating the tree. It will be time to prepare for dinner soon, and everything must be perfect.”
They hugged each other, set to work, and then, when they were finished, they took a step back to enjoy the splendor.
“It’s beautiful,” Meg exclaimed. “The best yet!”
“Wait until the tapers are lit,” Kitty said lightheartedly. “Everything in the room will sparkle like stars on a cold winter night.”
Obstacles still rose before her, however. Briefly, she closed her eyes, trying to blot out her concerns. They darted to the forefront of her thoughts just the same. All the decorations in the world couldn’t change the fact that Bart hated Christmas.
“Oh, Meg.” She released a quivering breath. “Everything comes with its own set of distractions, and its own price.”
Chapter Ten
Candlelight reflected off every surface, its holiday brilliance a stark reminder of the ramparts Bart was about to walk as he escorted Kitty into the Earl of Bridgewater’s dining room. Christmas had arrived with spectacle and flourish as heady aromas seasoned the air, and another Tannenbaum rose above the heads of guests. Holly and ivy decorated the hearth, molding, chandeliers, and doorways, too.
Music, laughter, and gaiety mocked his pain, each visceral encounter a representation of what could have been in his youth. He’d suppressed the memories, the heartache, and the bitterness until Kitty had come into his life. He didn’t blame her for his sensitivity. Rather, he hoped that her presence would be a calming influence over him this night.
Berkhamstead Place mirrored John Leech’s illustration of happiness. The Egertons were, after all, tenacious, kindhearted people who lived in a world foreign to Bart. Their world overflowed with love, something with which he lacked experience.
Ever since he was ten years old, Bart had forgone anything involving lavish holiday enticements. He’d never thought twice about refusing Egerton’s invitation. Until he’d met Kitty. One look at her made him regret never having known her before now. He studied her profile. Her hair was parted in the middle of her forehead, neatly plaited away from her face. Pearls had been arranged in the dark strands, visible only when she turned her head. Her long, slender neck crowned a blue gown, the bodice caressing her skin seductively, making him desire to inch the fabric back over her bare shoulders until her flesh was no longer only a feast for his hungry eyes.
He looked away. By Hades, it was wrong to be attracted to Egerton’s sister.
Why had he come?
Be honest with yourself for once.
Because he couldn’t stay away. Longing to see her again, all the while recognizing the wrong of it, he’d come to Berkhamstead, on the misguided assumption he could get her out of his blood. How foolish he’d been. When he’d beheld her under the mistletoe, her chin tilted with expectancy, he’d wanted to kiss her. But he’d never be good enough for Kitty, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. And he cared too much about his friend to push the issue.
Yet, here he was, doing that very thing.
If only I hadn’t listened to the devil on my shoulder. At least I wouldn’t feel like a fool.
“Dinner is served,” Hatfield said, appearing in the doorway.
Couples who had been milling about here and there made their way to their seats, as did several unpartnered men who had been conversing jovially. Among them were some of his compatriots from London: Mr. Castleton; Thomas Cranfield, the Earl of Shaftesbury; Mr. Locke; Mr. Moulton; Mr. Morrison; and Mr. Starey. They were all men he’d suggested Egerton invite to debate the creation of a Poor Law Union with the Earl of Bridgewater and General Finch. And to embolden Kitty’s philanthropic dreams, he’d also encouraged Egerton to ask Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts to join them. No one in London was better equipped to advise Kitty than Miss Burdett-Coutts. After the woman’s father had died, leaving her his share of the Bank of England and making her the wealthiest woman in the United Kingdom, the other owners sought to buy her out of her portion. She’d refused, earning their respect by learning everything there was to know about banking and taking over the bank at twenty-four years old and gaining the Crown’s patronage. And Kitty was just as able and quick-witted as Miss Burdett-Coutts. She only lacked confidence.
Eager for Kitty to finally meet the woman, Bart suddenly realized he had no idea where Kitty was to be seated. The earl would be at one end of the immense table, his wife the other. Deuce it, nerves had gotten hold of him and he couldn’t remember. He eyed the exits, looking for an escape.
Egerton arrived to save the day. “This way, you boob.” He grinned, brushing past.
Bart’s mouth went dry, but he took the jab gratefully, nodding as he and Kitty fell in line behind her brother and Miss Castleton.
“You needn’t have worried, Mr. Fernsby,” Kitty whispered. “A woman can lead when the time calls for it.”
Bollocks! She read him like an open book. If he weren’t so blasted nervous, he would have cheered. How he adored her intellect . . . and the graceful lines of her neck. But he was a dim-witted cit for dreaming of trailing kisses along its length—and elsewhere—all night long.
“I will help you chart these waters.” She tilted her lovely chin. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Talk of secrets banished all sensual thought and desire he felt for the woman on his arm. He felt like a bumbling fool, and forced a smile. Egerton had promised not to tell a single soul about Bart’s true identity. Surely, he hadn’t been betrayed after all this time. Egerton wouldn’t tell Kitty . . . Would he? Or was she acknowledging his slip in etiquette?
Bart fought back old doubts and fears, unsure how to respond. He was, however, quite aware that glancing down at her exquisite dress might lead Kitty to wonder if he was gazing at her bosom given his height. It was a lovely bosom.
She inclined her head and said, “I know where I am to be seated.”
Relief filled Bart. Egerton hadn’t told her. Bart met her eyes, and they locked on each other’s. He swallowed hard, unable to break away.
“I also know we have you to thank for Miss Burdett-Coutts’s presence,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “Do not underestimate your brother’s influence.”
“He is capable of pulling off such a feat,” she said, “but you are the mastermind of this party. He as much as told me so just minutes before we came downstairs.” Bart grappled with the desire to leave the room without really knowing why. “You bring out the best in him.”
The reverse was true. He’d be out on the street if Egerton hadn’t taught him to stand his ground and fight back the bullies who’d labeled him a street rat. How little they’d known the truth of it. Kitty was astute, but unlike the boys in school, she attributed much to him when little was due. The Egerton name alone was significant enough to attract philanthropists from near and far.
“By the by,” he said, “Mr. Dickens sends his regards.”
She gasped. “To whom?”
“To you. Your brother invited him to the festivities, too.”
“But how did—” Her cheeks reddened adorably. “But of course. You know Mr. Dickens.”
“Yes,” he said with a grin.
Deuce it, he was completely besotted. If she knew how far he’d gone to please her without knowing if she reciprocated his feelings, she’d think him a dunderhead. It wouldn’t do to drop his guard, to declare himself, or to allow anyone to mistake his intentions, especially Kitty. No matter what she felt for him, he knew he would never be the same after meeting her.
“Dickens is devoted to his family so he was unable to attend,” Bart continued, “but he sent you a gift.”
“A gift?” She stopped, amazed and shaken, quivering breathlessly. Her lashes flew up exposing her adorable, inquisitive eyes. “What do you suppose it could be?”
“I am not at liberty to say.” She bewitched him with her astonishment, leading him on a track of no return. “You must be patient. I’ve been ordered not to give anything away until I give it to you on Christmas Eve.”
She blinked, rapped upon his arm with her fingers, then produced a smile more genuine than any he’d ever seen. “But it is Christmas Eve.”
“Is it?” His gaze danced over her. Her youthful exuberance held him spellbound, forcing him to acknowledge the unbearable ache building inside. He longed to kiss her, to skillfully find a way to recover the opportunity he’d missed under the mistletoe. But it wasn’t to be. They’d passed the bundle hanging above the doorway without stopping. “I shall furnish his gift to you this evening, if that is your wish.”
Kitty nodded gracefully as he accompanied her. He stood a head taller with her at his side, felt stronger when he was with her. She had penetrated his safeguards. Her scent, her touch branded him. Her beauty, her sultry voice, and her generous nature coaxed him to step beyond his station. He understood the danger. Developing feelings for her demanded the death of everything he mourned and of which he was loath to let go—his aversion to Christmas. Could she break the chains that bound him? Would he allow it?
He’d forged a life for himself, a singular living, accountable to no one but himself or his business partners. He’d toiled with his hands, borne illness, experienced near death, loneliness, loss, and heartache, and he’d done so alone. It was easier to fend for himself than watch someone he loved perish. She’d killed that from him the moment she’d fallen into his arms, pummeling the bastions of his defenses to dust.
Kitty’s inner strength and her inherent need to protect others consumed his mind, if such a thing were possible. Her beauty, her speech, her very kindness had taken root inside him, controlling his waking and sleeping moments with obsessive persistence. Was this why men sought absolution at Tattersalls and gaming hells in the arms of mistresses and courtesans?
“No,” he said aloud to his own consternation.
“You do not wish me to sit down?” she asked, gazing at him curiously.
Caught thinking too much again, he feigned ignorance. “What?”
“This is where I am to be seated.”
“Do forgive me,” he said, pulling out her chair. “I was thinking about the city.” A partial lie. If he explained himself, he would ruin her Christmas. “I’ve been invited to Berkhamstead Place so many times, it’s hard to believe that I am finally here . . . with you.”
“But a delightful surprise, I am sure.” She nodded, though the look of concern on her face didn’t fade. It was as if she saw right through his being.
By Hades, he needed to be cleverer than this.
He glanced around the table where an assorted procession of various ranks—peers, gentry, divinity, and statesmen—took their seats. Servants waited along the walls. Beneath the glowing tapers of a large crystal chandelier, Miss Burdett-Coutts began to take off her gloves. Nonchalantly, the clever, thin woman slanted her gaze to the empty seat to her left. He stalled for time, checking his pocket watch, and then made his way around the table.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he took his seat.
She inclined her head, smiling sweetly as she lifted her goblet of wine to her lips. “Just helping a friend in need.”
China, silver, and expensive linens adorned the table before him. The show of wealth was a painful comparison to how Bart was forced to eat in the squalor of his youth. Rich scents of balsam and citrus amplified the magical atmosphere around him. There were jams, jellies, mustard, and sweet pickles. Sugared marzipan fruits and candied ginger, and a pyramid of fragrant oranges were mounded in gleaming silver bowls.
Soon, several delectable courses arrived, tempting the palate: tureens of oyster soup, platters of roasted goose, chestnut dressing, and a savory and sweet collection of Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, mince pie, jelly tarts, and fruitcake. Though his senses were overwhelmed, Bart made sure he did not eat any of the cheese that was offered. Its low cost made it a practical foodstuff for the working class, and therefore, it was vulgar to the upper classes. Had it been placed there to trap him? Was the earl testing him, despite his high-powered friends?
Treading carefully, he monitored each conversation and mimicked Miss Burdett-Coutts as to which eating utensil to use when. He spoke little, answering only when questioned directly.
“Mr. Fernsby,” the Earl of Bridgewater said, “my son tells me your uncle was a masterful influence on your education, but that he retained most of his wealth through speculation.”
Bart dabbed his mouth with his napkin, breathing slowly through his nose to keep from saying something he’d regret. It was a known fact that Uncle Matthias was a member of the nouveau riche. And in the eyes of everyone present, with the exception of Ambrose, so was Bart. No matter what he had been through, however, he was proud of his uncle’s accomplishments. He owed Uncle Matthias his fealty.
“Indeed, my lord. My uncle had a good grasp of how the railway system worked. He invested wisely in the railroad and educated me in every aspect of its booming allure—a steady income that’s provided me time and resources at my disposal.”
The earl grunted his approval. “I see. Would you be willing to illuminate us by contributing statistics about the railroad, speculation, and the future of steam?”
“Certainly.” This was a test of his intellect, and he hoped his throat wouldn’t close up. “Investments continue to grow annually for those who had the wherewithal to back innovation. Dividends have steadily climbed to ten percent this year, with one-hundred-pound ordinary shares switching hands for two hundred twenty-three pounds.”
“A good profit,” the Earl of Shaftesbury agreed. “And the safety record? Does it continue to improve?”
Bart nodded. “Considerably so.”
“While speculation and railway revenue keep the Bank of England in business, I prefer to discuss matters of the heart,” Miss Burdett-Coutts said. “Whether we’re born with money or we have earned it, we are here to discuss ways to educate children in the poorest sections of London. Our endeavors thus far are finally bearing fruit. Many children who couldn’t read their own names are now capable of reading and writing them. And thanks to Mr. Fernsby’s generosity, the Ragged Schools in London have access to their own libraries of books.” She glanced around the table before motioning to Bart animatedly. “For instance, when there was a problem with his book order, Mr. Fernsby delivered the seventeen volumes in his possession to our organization without batting an eye, and returned to Hatchard’s, acquired the three books he’d promised, and promptly purchased another twenty. That is diligent, is it not?”
Bart’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected Miss Burdett-Coutts to share the story in such detail. And he certainly hadn’t wanted Kitty to discover what he’d done, especially not like this. The three books he’d given her were nothing compared to the ones he had bought.
Kitty gasped, paling. Heads turned her way, but Bart avoided looking at her directly.
“My dear,” Miss Burdett-Coutts addressed Kitty, “I’m aware it is not appropriate to chatter on about a man’s virtues. Mr. Fernsby is a gentleman, and he’s had no part in my speech. He has never sought acclaim, nor asked for it. I’ll have you know few men possess his generous spirit.” She met Bart’s gaze, placing her hand over his. “Mr. Fernsby has my utmost respect, and I speak of his kindness in the presence of this noble crowd, not to elevate a young philanthropist in your eyes, but to demonstrate how effective a collaborative effort like the one you have here in Berkhamstead—the Union Guardians and the Poor Law Union we are trying to organize in London—can be when we all work as a cohesive unit dedicated to the same goal.”
“Hear! Hear!” several men shouted, raising their wineglasses.
“Well said, Miss Burdett-Coutts,” the Earl of Bridgewater contributed. Bart sat a bit taller in his chair as the earl lifted his goblet in a salute. “To worthy causes.”
Countess Bridgewater, Kitty’s mother, waited until the toast was finished before rising to her feet. The men quickly followed her example, loudly exiting their chairs. “Let us adjourn to the parlor, ladies,” she said sweetly, “so the men can drink their port. We have entertainment planned afterward.”
Cordial bows were offered as the ladies departed through an adjoining door. Now at their leisure, the men returned to their seats as footmen began serving their libations.
The tradition of separating the sexes after dinner wasn’t new, but Bart valued the female mind and would have preferred the ladies remain in the same room as their counterparts. Things like this often didn’t make sense to him, but he’d never known a gentle life and was wise enough not to question the way of things.
Thanks to the meeting in the Earl of Bridgewater’s study prior to dinner, those that remained in the dining room were astonishingly well informed about the radical middle class. They agreed not to discuss war because it no longer served as Britain’s main source of income. Instead, new ideals were to be shared and embraced, ideas meant to strengthen their unified efforts.
“To brilliant minds.” Egerton raised his glass for a toast. After several others were made, the earl’s son said, “It’s a pity more innovators aren’t joining us.”
“How so?” the Earl of Bridgewater asked.
Egerton pursed his lips and winked at Bart. “Take Sir Henry Cole, for instance.”
The earl frowned. “What about him?”
“Why, just the other day, Fernsby and I discovered that he mass-produced one thousand Christmas cards. Grandly illustrated, too, with emphasis on giving to the poor. Industrious, is it not? I think you will discover there will be twice the demand next year.”
“I’ve seen it. Your sister bought one during your trip to London,” the earl said, then pursed his lips. “But what I do not understand is the significance of mentioning it now.”
“Few know of its existence,” Bart said, his voice crisp and clear, yet full of emotion. “At one shilling apiece, the idea will catch on.”
The earl grumbled. “Sentimental do-gooders.”
