A Victorian Christmas (38 page)

“That your father might live long enough to see us wed and allow me to become legally entitled to his estate?”

She flushed. “Perhaps.”

“His death would free you from your obligation to marry me, of course. You know I have felt some concern over your lack of enthusiasm toward our union. But my assistance to your father stems from . . . Well, I have grown to like him very much. More importantly, you love him. And I love you.”

At his words, her head snapped up, and her eyes flickered. “
Love
me? How can you cast such a word about so lightly?”

“Lightly? I have never spoken of love to a woman in all my life. And I do not use the term merely in some vain attempt to win your affection.” A swell of agitation filled his chest as he faced her. He had just expressed some of the most difficult words he had ever spoken, and yet she continued to doubt and question him. With this woman, he knew he could not mince words. He took the small lamb from his pocket and knotted it in his fist.

“Since I met you, Rosalind, I have been forced to . . . Your forthrightness and determination to know me have caused me to look into my own heart for the first time in many years. I assure you I have done all within my power to ignore the stirring of emotion I feel. My whole life has been spent striving toward a single-minded goal—the accumulation of wealth, prestige, and power. You were intended to be simply a part of the accomplishment of that goal. But you came into my life with all the force of your will and your wit . . . and your total lack of interest in the wealth, prestige, and power I have managed to accumulate.”

“I am sorry.”

“No!” He rubbed the bit of carved wood under his thumb. “I have been compelled to look at my life from a new perspective, and what I have seen is emptiness. You have your love for your father, your devotion to your faith, and your utter determination to be truthful and loving in all that you do. I have this!”

He picked up a blue platter from the Ming Dynasty of China and sent it sailing across the room. It hit the wall and shattered into a hundred pieces. “What good has it done me? None! None at all.”

She stared at him. “Not now, at any rate.”

“What?”

“Well, you’ve broken it, you silly man.” She marched across the room and regarded the fragments on the carpet for a moment. Then she lifted her head. “I once lived in a home with fine china platters. And when I was taken away to live at Bridgeton Cottage, I thought about them sometimes. And here is what I discovered. A fine china platter can be useful to serve a meal. Or it can sit in a home as a lovely, calming reminder of the beauty of God’s creation. Or it can be sold to provide money when one can no longer afford to buy coal for the fire. There is nothing wrong with owning a fine china platter, sir.”

“For the reasons you have stated, no. But I bought that platter for two hundred pounds from an elegant shop on Regent Street, and I put it in my parlor for the express purpose of causing all who might see it to think me a wealthy man.”

“That is wrong.”

“Indeed.”

“Though you needn’t have hurled it against the wall.”

Mick let out a breath and tucked the lamb back into his pocket. “I have been filled with such anger these past three days.”

“Anger at whom?”

“At myself.” He sank down onto the settee. “Rosalind, if you should choose not to marry me, I can understand completely. I have seen the vileness of my own soul.”

“Because you bought a china platter?”

“Because I am a man full of deceit and selfishness and greed, and all manner of wickedness.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I have spent these days and nights reading William’s Bible, and I have come to understand that I am a man with nothing. All my wealth means nothing. My power means nothing. My status in society means nothing. I am the very worst of sinners.”

Miserable, he stared at the carpet. He fully expected Rosalind to walk out of the parlor and never to see him again. Instead, she sat beside him on the settee, folded her hands, and began to speak in the softest, most beautiful voice he had ever heard.

“My dear sir, I believe you have read only part of William’s Bible,” she said. “You have seen your sin, but you have not welcomed God’s love and forgiveness. You must read how Jesus took the punishment you deserve—all of us deserve—by allowing Himself to be crucified. Like a sacrificial lamb, He paid for our sin with His own death. And when He came back to life, He brought with Him the assurance of eternal life for us.”

“Heaven,” Mick muttered, thinking of his mother.

“You don’t have to spend the rest of your days on this earth smashing china platters and despising the wicked state of your soul. You have merely to accept God’s forgiveness and begin to walk in His love.”

“Accept it?”

“It’s very simple,” she said, taking his hand and bowing her head. “Dear God, You know all the blackness in this man’s soul. Do forgive him now and welcome him into Your kingdom. Amen.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, you might want to do the asking yourself.”

Mick studied his knees. Was it really so easy? Could he rid himself of the blot of evil in his past and claim the promise of a new life?

“Dear God,” he said, and as he spoke, he recognized a strong sense of someone listening. Someone present in the room with him and Rosalind. “I have read the Bible, though not all of it. And I have come to see that my motives and my actions are not all they should be. No, that is stating it too mildly. I have been a sinful person since the earliest days of my life. I ask You now . . . I beg You . . . to forgive me. Accept me. Love me.”

“Amen. There you are, then,” Rosalind said. “A new man, completely forgiven of all your sin.”

“It seems too easy.”

“That is its beauty.” She stood. “But I assure you that the forgiven life you now lead will not be easy. Our God has a bitter enemy, and it is the enemy’s greatest delight to tempt us back into sin. You should go to church more than at Christmas and Easter, sir. Church is the place where we can worship God and gain strength and wisdom. I recommend it highly.”

Mick came to his feet and walked beside her toward the parlor door. “Rosalind, now that you know all this about me—all my failings—do you wish to be released from our agreement? I cannot blame you—”

“No, indeed.” Her eyes shone as she met his gaze. “For I find that I am in grave danger of falling in love with you, sir.” She dipped her head. “Do excuse me now. I must return to Papa.”

Before he could respond, she had fled across the foyer and out the front door.

“This is a capital idea, indeed!” Lord Remington clipped a small, white candle to the branch of the towering fir tree that stood in the front parlor of Sir Michael Stafford’s house in Grosvenor Square. “William, was this your notion? Or do I detect the distinct touch of my dearest Caroline?”

“No, Father, for it was Mick himself who conceived the plan.” William was stirring a bowl of hot cranberry punch. “He said that a Christmas Eve wedding called for a tree and all the trimmings.”

“And what could be more enjoyable than gathering friends and family for a decorating party?” Mick asked as he hung a red glass ball on a limb. “All of you have played an important part in the union that is to take place tomorrow morning. Miss Treadwell . . . Rosalind . . . and I are very grateful.”

Rosalind smiled as Mick cast a warm glance in her direction. How could it be that in such a short time, her heart had transformed from a solid block of suspicion and resentment to this buttery, flip-flopping, giddy lump that danced about in her chest every time he looked at her? She took her father’s hand, seeking an anchor.

“Mick is thanking every one,” she said through the ear trumpet.

“Ahh.” Lord Buxton nodded sagely. Though his speech was not completely clear, he was able to sit up for long periods of time, and he was making every effort to learn to stand again.

“Artie!” he called, beckoning Sir Arthur with his good hand. Lord Remington hobbled across the room on his gouty legs, and Rosalind gladly gave him her place on the settee. The two men had discovered that their chess playing abilities had not suffered in the least. Rather than making the effort to go to their gentlemen’s club, they simply visited each other’s abodes, and their cries of victory or defeat could be heard echoing down the corridors at all hours.

“The tree is lovely,” Rosalind said as Mick stepped toward her with a cup of punch. “Caroline said you ordered all the trimmings yesterday from a shop on Bond Street.”

“I’ve never put up a tree before.” He gave her the cup and took her free hand in his. “I hope it will be a tradition we can enjoy for many years to come.”

“Indeed.”

“Children,” he added, “would very much enjoy a tree.”

Rosalind couldn’t force away the blush she could feel heating her cheeks. “I always loved Christmas when I was a little girl. But I suppose you had no fir trees or cranberry punch in India.”

He glanced down. “Rosalind, I—”

“What is this?” Caroline exclaimed over a collection of boxes near the door. “These ornaments are not new, Mick. Oh, how lovely! Wherever did you get them?”

She lifted a silver ball of blown glass high into the air. Rosalind gave a gasp of joy. “Those are
our
ornaments!” Leaving Mick, she fairly danced across the parlor in delight. “Papa must have ordered them to be sent from the great house at Bridgeton. Look, Mick!”

“How very pretty,” he said.

“They’ve been stored in the attic for many years, but I would know these balls at once. My grandpapa bought them in Bavaria before the turn of the century. He told us they were all hand painted by a wee man in a shop on the side of a mountain. Oh, how delightful!”

Her heart singing, she hurried to her father’s side and gave his cheek a kiss. Lord Buxton patted her arm. “Mick, please may we add them to the tree?” she implored. “I know they are old, but—”

“Of course, Rosalind.” His face softened. “It is your tree now . . . and your home . . . as much as it is mine.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much!”

“Look at this!” Caroline cried as she unwrapped an angel with spun-glass wings, and Rosalind could not bear to miss a moment. She raced back to the boxes and eagerly took out one cherished object after another—a wreath made of gilded pinecones, angels and Father Christmases of embossed paper, tiny lace cones spilling with silver ribbons, and countless glass balls from the mountains of Bavaria.

Never had she thought she would spend the days before her wedding in such joy. Caroline and William had become her dear friends, unabashed in their happiness at the growing attachment between Mick and herself. Her father’s health was steady. Her acceptance into London’s highest society seemed assured. But most of all—she couldn’t keep herself from glancing in his direction—most of all, she had come to adore her future husband.

How could it be that God had seen fit to bless her with more than she had ever dreamed of in a man, Rosalind wondered as she unwrapped an old nativity set her grandfather had carved. Mick was more than handsome, she had decided. With his broad shoulders and thick hair and warm blue eyes, he was . . . well, he was a masterpiece! She loved the shape of his hands, the hint of beard that shadowed his face each evening, the fine angle of his nose, the turn of his ear . . .

“Who are these people?” Caroline asked, holding up a small picture frame that emerged from the bottom of a box.

“It’s Mama and Papa!” Rosalind cried. “How did it get put into the Christmas decorations? One of the servants must have thought it was an ornament.” She took the portrait and gazed at her youthful parents. Then she scrambled to her feet and hurried to her father. “Look, Papa, it’s you and Mama!”

At the sight of the portrait, he let out a cry of joy. “Maude!” he said, so clearly there could be no doubt of the depth of love they had known. “My Maude.”

Her heart flooding with pleasure, Rosalind looked around for Mick. Surely he would wish to see how her parents had appeared in their youth. Indeed, Papa had often told Rosalind she was almost a copy of her mother. With her masses of brown curly hair and her slender figure, she could see the resemblance so clearly now.

“Where is Mick?” she asked, looking around the room.

“He stepped outside for a moment,” Caroline said as she began setting up the nativity scene. “Oh, look, it’s snowing! I do hope he doesn’t stay out long.”

Remembering how Mick had spoken of his desire for children, Rosalind felt determined to show him the portrait of her mother. What if their daughters had the same curly hair? Would he be pleased? She thought so, as she pushed open the long French door that led onto a croquet lawn. He had admired her curls just that evening, and he had stated that she must purchase all the jeweled combs and pins she desired so that her hair might be displayed to its fullest advantage.

“Mick!” she called, spotting him near the far edge of the lawn. She lifted her skirts and ran through the heavy flakes that had begun to fall. “Mick, you must come back inside, for Caroline has found a portrait of my parents, and I want you to see it. I am quite sure you will recognize how strongly I resemble my mother—”