Christmas Surprises Page 9

  Again, Simon felt the pangs of melancholy strike. The family seemed entirely whole without him. He’d not graced their presence at this time of year for six years or more. The twins thought him no more than a visiting stranger. Thomas and Helen had their own lives, revolving around their children and their friends and their social life. His father had made an idle inquiry as to his plans now that the war seemed over, but he’d scarcely acknowledged his younger son’s presence since. Only his mother fussed and bothered over him, as if he were still a small child.

  Why did he feel so out of place with the people he loved when he’d felt comfortably at home in the kitchen of a woman he didn’t know?

  Shaking his head at the perversity of his nature, Simon settled into this family scene. Perhaps he’d become used to crude conditions and a simple country kitchen had felt more like home than this elegant parlor. He didn’t mean to analyze it. He took a seat beside his mother, across from the twins, and accepted the cup handed to him.

  “May we have your cherry cake if you don’t want it?” four-year old Tobias asked, his face already liberally smeared with the remainder of an earlier cake.

  “But I mean to eat them all up,” Simon responded soberly, “Even the chocolate ones. You may have the sandwiches, if you like.”

  Beside the brash Tobias, dainty Tabitha puckered up. “I wanted a chocolate one,” she murmured.

  “They’re nasty pasty sandwiches,” Tobias declared. “You can’t have all the cakes.”

  Amazing how even at an early age the boy learned to stand up and argue while the girl just sobbed to get her way. Simon hadn’t had enough experience with children to notice that until now. He thought back to the two young girls in Rebecca’s kitchen. Those two hadn’t sobbed or protested. They’d merely stated their case and went about their business when told. He wondered how the argument fared after he’d left. What was “a’Thomasing” and why had Rebecca gone so pale at the thought?

  “One more cake for each of you,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “Then back to the nursery. You’re all over crumbs.”

  While the children carefully chose their favorite cakes, Simon turned to his mother. “I’ve been from home so long, I’ve forgotten it all. The vicar mentioned something about a’Thomasing, but I had to pretend to know what he was talking about. Is it related to St. Thomas’s day?”

  Lady Lemaster gave him a little pat and handed him a plate full of sandwiches. “It’s just the day some of the widows in the village come around to visit with sprigs of holly or mistletoe. We leave a plate of shillings at the door in exchange. We have a sip of tea and talk a bit, then they help themselves as they go out. It’s a polite way of helping out this time of year. It’s so hard on some of them, and this year it’s particularly bad. The wool brought in nothing at all, corn prices are down, and with many of the miners out of work, there’s no extra to be had anywhere. And there are so many widows these days, with the war and all. I’m afraid the poor rates will have to go up to take care of them all. We do what we can.”

  Stunned, Simon sank back against the cushions. “Does the government not provide pensions for the military widows?”

  His mother sent him a shrewd look. “I suppose, of some sort. It doesn’t seem enough to live on, though. I’m not certain they all receive it, and of course, they can’t afford solicitors to look into the matter. It’s a sad business, but there is little we can do. Did you say you met the Widow Tarkington today?”

  “I returned her collie to her. I hadn’t realized Matthew married. She’s not from around here, is she?”

  “I haven’t really inquired, dear. Matthew didn’t bring her around and introduce her before he returned to war. I’ve seen her in church, of course, but we’re not in the same circles. I can’t imagine how Matthew found her.”

  Simon gritted his teeth and tried not to condemn his mother for her attitude. She had thought little of Matthew’s mother, calling her a “common woman from the village.” But the previous Mrs. Tarkington had been as educated and well brought up as the viscountess, perhaps more so. Matthew’s mother had never condemned anyone for their lack of breeding.

  To Simon’s surprise, his father intruded upon the conversation, leaving his desk to help himself to one of the cakes the twins hadn’t mangled before departing. “Met her in London, he did. He was on leave, she was there for her come-out. Right smitten the moment he laid eyes on her, I understand. Came to my office and asked for my aid in winning her father to his suit. Didn’t make much difference. Botherwell always was a hard-headed ass.”

  “Botherwell? The only Botherwell I remember is the baron who turns coal into cash. She’s his daughter?”

  The viscount shrugged. “His only child. Spoiled her. Told him so myself. Not that she took well in society in any case. Too tall for most of those lazy young louts. Botherwell should have known something of the sort would happen. Gal had too much sense to fall for the fortune hunters who swarmed around her, so she found herself a pretty face instead.”

  Simon sifted through his father’s laconic explanations for the whole story. The conclusion he reached raised his eyebrows. “She eloped with Matthew?”

  His father filled his plate and wandered back toward the desk. “So I heard. Matthew didn’t ask me about that part.”

  By this time, Helen and Thomas had finished their discussion and now returned to the table. Helen set her cup down and asked, “Are you talking about Rebecca? Sad case, that, but she should never have gone against her family’s wishes. Matthew Tarkington only wanted a mother for his little sisters.”

  Simon scowled. “I don’t believe that. He wouldn’t have eloped with the daughter of a wealthy baron unless they’d made a love match. He was always impetuous, but he wasn’t selfish.”

  His sister-in-law daintily dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Men always defend each other. He took a wealthy young girl from her loved ones and dumped her in the middle of nowhere to look after two little girls, then he returned to war and left her to fend for herself. If that’s not selfish, I don’t know what is.”

  “If I recollect rightly, it takes two to make a marriage. She must have had something to say about the matter. Perhaps she didn’t realize her father was so opposed to the match. I suppose he cut her off?”

  Helen nodded as she wiped her fingers. “No dowry, nothing. He’d had grand plans for her. He probably could have bought her an earl, if she’d wanted. He doted on her. I never had a chance to talk with her much, but Rebecca never seemed interested in owning an earl. Growing up without a mother, she lived a little wild at home. She had some strange ideas.”

  Strange ideas like wanting the same love and affection from a husband as she’d received from her father, Simon supposed. She hadn’t grown up wild. She’d grown up naive. No one had explained the facts of life to her. He began to understand a little better why she’d practically thrown him from her kitchen for offering her money. He’d made an ass of himself.

  As he left his family to go on to other topics, Simon wandered in the direction of the billiard room. He hadn’t practiced in years. He and Matthew had used to enjoy the challenge of a good game of billiards. Thomas never had the eye for it. He wondered who he would play against now. Not having Matthew here left a gap he hadn’t expected. Maybe Richard played? Probably not. A vicar wouldn’t.

  He couldn’t keep his mind from straying back to Matthew and his widow. Matthew had married a wealthy baron’s daughter. It seemed too incredible to be true. Of course, Matthew had always had a way with women. He’d seduced his fair share in the village and even had a few swooning when they’d gone to London to buy their colors. They’d thought it jolly good fun at the time. At the age of twenty-one, fun was the only thing of importance on their minds. Marriage had never occurred to either of them. They’d meant to be decorated, glorious war heroes.

  Simon shot his cue into the ball so sharply that it bounced back and forth across the table without ever hitting a hole. Cursing, he put the
cue back in the rack. War heroes. A lot of good they were dead and buried in some stinking hole.

  * * * *

  “My, how lovely you look today, Mrs. Tarkington! And Miss Tarkington! Soon enough, you’ll have all the lads stumbling over their feet around you.”

  “That’s about all they’re good for,” Lucille muttered under her breath, making Rebecca smile. Lucille had just had a major tiff with the butcher’s boy, until now, her favorite suitor, if he could be called that. Mostly, he gave her meat pies and showed her where the frogs swam.

  Rebecca smiled at the friendly grocer and produced her shopping list. “You flatter us, I’m sure, Mr. White. It must be the Christmas spirit come upon us.” She handed the list over the counter to him.

  “Just a few weeks more,” he declaimed merrily. “I’ve got the gander all picked out. How about you? Will you have goose?”

  Rebecca clasped her gloved hands tightly but managed to return his good cheer. “If I had my way, we’d have roast pork, but the girls treat that little monster as a pet.”

  White laughed and turned to find the supplies listed. “Going to have plum pudding, I see. Haven’t had a good plum pudding in years. Wife says they’re too much trouble without the children there to enjoy it.”

  “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like, sir. I’m sure we’ll have more than we can eat. It’s a modest recipe, not as grand as you remember, perhaps, but we’ll have the usual surprises, I’m sure.” Rebecca shook her head silently at Lucille’s frown. The child would have to learn it was more pleasurable to share treats with others than to keep them to themselves.

  “That’s right kind of you, Mrs. Tarkington, right kind. Might take you up on that. Squire always dressed a good table. Remember sharing his punch many a year. Here you are.” He returned to the counter, piling up the supplies that would provide a Christmas baking of tarts and pudding as well as the usual staples for cooking.

  “Put that on our bill, if you would, Mr. White. Matthew’s pension money should come in after the first of the year.” She crossed her fingers as she said this. She hoped the pension money would appear then. She’d written. They’d acknowledged her petition. When the money hadn’t been forthcoming, she’d written again, mentioning her father’s name. The reply had promised. Surely, they wouldn’t hold out any longer than the first of the year.

  A frown of concern replaced the grocer’s earlier good cheer. He glanced at Lucille, who had gone to look at something in the window. Quietly, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tarkington. The bill’s higher than is good for both of us. What if I put a few of these extras back? Then it won’t come to so much.”

  The extras, like the expensive cinnamon for the tarts and the candied fruits for the pudding. Rebecca bit her lip, trying not to let him see it quiver. She had nothing to give the girls this year. She had thought and thought and found no money for anything. She’d hoped the pudding would lift their spirits. Mr. White let her run a generous bill, knowing she paid what she could whenever she had it. Now even he threatened to cut off her credit. Much more of this, and she would be forced to take charity. Or sell tarts to the odious Simon Lemaster.

  With a calmness she didn’t feel, Rebecca removed her glove and pulled off the simple gold band on her finger. “Will this help pay toward the bill, Mr. White?”

  He looked shocked. “I couldn’t take that, Mrs. Tarkington. That’s your wedding ring.”

  She smiled bitterly. “But I’m not married any more, am I? So it’s of little use to me. And I promised the girls plum pudding.”

  She could see the indecision on his face, the goodness of his heart warring with the instincts of a businessman. He had a wife and home and shop to run. She could understand his fear that he would end up supporting the Tarkingtons if they never paid their bill. She lay the ring down on the counter. “I don’t wish to take charity, Mr. White. I’ll trust your judgment on the fairness of the payment.

  “I’ll have a jeweler weigh it,” he promised, slipping the ring in his pocket. “You’ll get the best offer I can find.”

  She hated to see the pity in his eyes. That was the worst part of poverty. She could learn to deal with recalcitrant pigs and smelly sheep and scrubbing floors and all that. She just couldn’t abide the pity. She moved to examine an exotic assortment of spices on the wall while the grocer packaged up their order.

  With their supplies neatly tucked into their bags, Lucille and Rebecca returned to the unpromising gray light of the street outside. Heavy clouds still hung over the sky, and a brisk breeze whipped their skirts, cutting right through their flimsy cloaks. For the hundredth time, Rebecca wished she’d had the foresight to elope with her winter clothes as well as her summer gowns. Of course, at the time, she hadn’t thought her father could be so unforgiving.

  “Isn’t that Mr. Lemaster coming toward us?” Lucille asked as Rebecca stopped to tie her woolen scarf more securely around her neck. The girls had knit it for her last winter. It had odd lumps and knots in it, and the red, green, and brown made a strange combination of colors, but warm wool accomplished its purpose.

  Rebecca looked up in time to see the young soldier advancing on her. She could tell he had been a soldier even though he wore civilian clothes. The military stride and determined expression said it all. She would find herself outflanked if she didn’t surrender her position immediately.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Tarkington,” he said in clipped tones that almost demanded a salute. “You’re out early.”

  “The same could be said of you, sir,” she answered politely, ignoring the stirring of interest in her more feminine side when his gaze seemed to soften as it fell on her. “We decided we wished to make plum pudding as well as apple tarts today, and I needed a few ingredients.”

  His eyes lit with anticipation. “Would you need any help, then? I haven’t stirred a good plum pudding in years.”

  Surely he couldn’t be setting up a flirt with her. He’d said he was Matthew’s friend. A friend wouldn’t try to seduce his friend’s widow, would he? Remembering herself, Rebecca laughed inwardly at her misplaced vanity and gave the answer she would have given Matthew. “We’ll make the tarts first. How good are you at peeling apples?” A man as handsome as Simon Lemaster would never set up a flirt with a woman as plain and unappealing as herself.

  “Quite good, as a matter of fact,” he stated, falling into step with them. “Even better if I’m allowed to munch a few while working.”

  They didn’t make it past the village tavern before Mrs. Lofton, the vicar’s wife, hurried forward to greet them.

  “Rebecca! There you are. I’ve just been out to the house looking for you. We needed you at the Ladies’ Meeting last night. We’ve decided to have a holiday festival to help the needy this year. Everyone will bring in odds and ends of things: baked goods, knitted garments, Mrs. Baker will bring some of her fine jams, you know the kind of thing. And we’ll auction them off! We’ll have refreshments and entertainment for the children, then the proceeds will go toward buying coal and staples for those who need it. We were hoping you could contribute some of your baked goods, both for the auction and the refreshments.”

  Rebecca hesitated only a second. She couldn’t lower herself in the eyes of Lucille and Mr. Lemaster and the vicar’s wife by saying she couldn’t afford the expense. She certainly couldn’t admit that they could use the coal and food themselves. She had been raised as a lady, and it was a lady’s duty to help those with less. She knew of a certainty that many families had a great deal less than they did. The Tarkingtons had been landed gentry in these parts for centuries. She couldn’t sully their name. She nodded quiet agreement, discussed the refreshments briefly, then left Mrs. Lofton on her round of errands.

  She felt Mr. Lemaster’s questioning gaze on her as they set off down the path, but she refused to meet his eyes. Making more tarts would use what sugar remained in the larder, and most of the flour. If they received the pension in January, they wouldn’t have to go without. If t
hey didn’t...

  She couldn’t let herself think of that. Instead, she turned her attention to the nonsense Mr. Lemaster and Lucille exchanged while her mind wandered elsewhere.

  He had them laughing as they scuffled through damp brown leaves and frozen ruts. Rebecca had seen the sternness in his face yesterday, but she had recognized the charm in him from the first. Matthew had possessed that same ingenuous charm, the easy smile, a manner that made her feel wholly feminine and like the only woman in the world for him. She couldn’t say Simon Lemaster made her feel like that, but she suspected he could should he turn his mind to it. The thought made her uneasy. She knew her own vulnerability too well.

  That was one too many things to worry about.

  As they hurried around to the kitchen door so as not to clutter the parlor with their muddy boots and damp cloaks, Mary came running from the back field, shouting with hiccupping sobs, “Ginger’s in the pond!” The rest of her cries were mostly incoherent until she was closer, and Rebecca’s stomach sank further as she understood the extent of the disaster.

  “Leopold was chasing a mouse, and he scared Ginger, and she broke the rest of the stall door, and now she’s wandered down to the pond and I can’t get her out!”

  Rebecca tried to stay calm. She was the adult here. The girls needed her to behave accordingly. But without Ginger the cow, they would have no milk or cream or butter. And the foolish animal would freeze in the pond if Mad George didn’t come out and shoot her for trespassing—as he’d threatened to do the last time the cow had muddied up his fishing pond. Ginger weighed eight times Rebecca’s weight and had the mind of a mule. She didn’t go anywhere she didn’t want to.

  Even as she thought that, the squeal of a rambunctious pig warned of impending chaos. Sure enough, Pigmalion rushed through the gate Mary had left open in her haste, charging directly toward them as if the only escape route she knew involved flying between the legs of humans, tumbling them like bowling pins.