Chapter 19

By the fire in the breakfast room, it was cosy and quiet. Callum listened to the companionable rustle and crackle of the flames in the grate and gazed out of the window at the grey sky. Though the sun had risen already, nobody else had yet come to have breakfast, and Callum enjoyed the peaceful calm of the space. As he poured himself another cup of tea, his thoughts strayed to the moment in the snow when he had gazed into Miss Rothwell’s eyes and held her hand.

“So beautiful,” he murmured to the empty space. She seemed not only astonishingly lovely in appearance, but her character, too, seemed more and more appealing. Her bright idea had saved his horses, and that mattered more to him than he could express.

“Callum? There you are,” Mother called him, just as she was walking into the breakfast room as briskly as he had ever seen her move in his life. Her white hair was carefully styled but some of it had come loose from its elaborate chignon and fluffed around her face. Her severe grey-blue velvet dress was ruffled in a way that suggested she had walked swiftly all the way to the room. Callum got to his feet, heart thudding. “I was looking everywhere for you.”

“I am here, as you see,” Callum began. “What is it, mother?” he asked swiftly. For her, moving quickly was a level of agitation she bestowed on nothing.

“Recall that I said that we would hand out the gift-boxes to the craftsmen and villagers today, not the traditional St. Stephen’s Day?” she asked.

“No,” Callum said truthfully, but held his peace when she shot him a hard glance.

“Well, I did. How are we to involve our guests when half of them will travel back home again on St. Stephen’s Day?” she demanded. Callum inclined his head.

“True.”

“Quite so,” his mother said firmly. “And now the guests will be down any moment and all the hampers are not packed yet and there’s no way of readying the coaches because they’re all over the place!” She gestured to the door.

“It will be well,” Callum began soothingly, though his mother glared at him.

“I would appreciate it if you could go down and tell the coachman to find some way of harnessing half a dozen coaches that are halted all over the lawn. Then I shall be satisfied.”

He stood. “Yes, Mother,” he answered swiftly and hurried downstairs.

In the entranceway, he was met with a chaotic scene. Half a dozen baskets filled with food lay strewn around the floor, while boxes that contained blankets and bolts of fabric were lined up somewhat casually against one wall. Three footmen were working there—one completing the baskets with oranges and other things from the kitchens, and another two beginning to carry them outside.

“Your Grace!” The butler spotted him and sounded relieved.

“The coachman will begin harnessing the coaches,” Callum assured him swiftly. “In the meanwhile, direct the men to arrange the goods on the terrace beneath the overhanging roof.”

The butler bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Callum instructed the man, then hurried back up the servants’ corridor. As he reached the stairs, he tensed. He could hear James talking.

“...and it will likely snow more heavily this evening.”

“Perhaps it will,” Miss Rothwell’s voice replied.

Callum bridled at the thought of her talking to James. He had seen the fellow stare after her with what he could only name hunger in his gaze. His cheeks flushed with anger and he stalked up the stairs after them.

He slowed down behind them. Miss Rothwell wore a blue gown, her hair styled with a blue ribbon into a simple bun. James walked attentively beside her, his dark trousers and brown jacket sombre in the darkened space of the stairwell.

“It would be grand for sledging. Though I reckon we are all too old for that. A fast sledge might already give me an apoplexy.” James continued calmly.

Miss Rothwell laughed. Callum’s jaw stiffened. He marched up to them as they reached the second floor.

James smiled smugly. Callum glared at him.

“I trust you slept well,” Callum greeted Miss Rothwell abruptly. He heard the abruptness of his own voice and winced.

“Yes. I did,” she stammered, sounding confused and upset. Callum groaned inwardly. After all her help and kindness, and the connection they had shared, such a rough, rude greeting was much less than she might have expected.

“Thank you. As did I,” he managed to say. Dash it, he thought wildly. I must sound quite the fool! James was staring at him, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth, brown eyes gazing sardonically at him.

“Have you visited the horses?” Miss Rothwell asked conversationally, walking beside him up the hallway.

“No. I was helping my mother. She is organising the hampers for St. Stephen’s Day. Yes, I know.” He made a wry face, seeing her gaze widen in surprise. “It is a little unconventional to give out the charity hampers a few days before Christmas, but Mother wished to do it before the guests return home, and so it must be so.”

Miss Rothwell smiled. “It will be a most pleasant morning,” she said. Callum raised a brow, but her smile was genuine.

“I am glad you will find it so,” he replied.

They had reached the breakfast room, and Callum stood back for Miss Rothwell to enter, aware of James trailing behind them. He did not turn around to see whether the fellow was watching and listening.

Several guests had arrived since his brief exit, and Mother sat at a table with Lord and Lady Bronham, Lord Chesterford and Lady Millicent. His mother caught his eye and Callum knew that she was about to wave him over to take the empty seat at their table, but he evaded her and swiftly gestured Miss Rothwell to a seat at the table in front of them.

“Miss Rothwell?”

“Thank you,” she replied, sitting in the chair he indicated. Callum sat opposite her and let out a relieved breath as James took a seat at the other table. He poured tea for Miss Rothwell, then for himself. She seemed quiet and he was content simply to gaze at her. Her lovely soft hair glowed in the light from the fire and she gazed out of the window, her hazel eyes slightly unfocused. She looked relaxed but lost in thought—an expression that became her well.

“Did you see the coaches? I do wonder what we shall do today!” Miss Georgina Rothwell commented brightly. She and her sister, along with Harriet, appeared at their table and sat down hurriedly.

“A coach ride, I expect,” Isabel said seriously. Callum chuckled.

“Well said,” he replied.

“It’s the St. Stephen’s Day hampers,” Harriet related excitedly. “We’re going to go and give them out, are we not, brother?”

“Yes. We shall,” he assured them.

A few minutes later, Mother stood and made the announcement to the guests. The news brought a hush of focus to the diners, who seemed in a hurry to eat so that they could go outside and take part in the new activity.

When the guests began to drift from the room, heading downstairs, Callum stood and walked with Miss Rothwell. He glanced over his shoulder, glaring hard at James, but he was laughing with his cousin, an affable smile on his face, and did not seem to be staring after them.

“How will we take so many people—along with all the hampers—to the village?” Miss Rothwell asked Callum as he shrugged on his greatcoat. He smiled.

“Mr Morton shall follow behind us with a cart. Most of the gifts will be in that.”

Miss Rothwell looked pleased. “Your family is most generous at Christmas,” she remarked as they walked down the front steps. The remaining boxes were being loaded up into the cart as they passed by. Callum smiled.

“Thank you,” he said softly. He hesitated to tell her that there had been years when they had been so poor, due to repaying the debts, that they had been unable to dispense charity. He suspected that was the reason why his family outdid themselves with the St. Stephen’s Day hampers—it was, in part, a celebration for them of their restored wealth. They were sufficiently wealthy to be able to give gifts again.

“Can you see my sisters?” she asked him, gazing over the milling guests. Callum spotted them patting the coach-horses harnessed to the big Landau, and he grinned, inclining his head to indicate where they were.

Miss Rothwell wandered over to the coach. Callum followed at a deliberate pace, unwilling to let her out of his sight. He was resolved to be in the same coach as she. James and Phillipa were about to alight into a coach and he looked away, bowing to Miss Rothwell.

“Might I help you in?” he asked.

“Oh! Yes. Please,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. Her sisters shrieked in delight.

“Are we to go in this one?” Georgina asked him excitedly.

“Oh! How grand!” Isabel exclaimed, her usually quiet mood lightened by the apparently exciting prospect.

Callum inclined his head. “As you wish,” he said smoothly.

The cover had been removed from the Landau, and it afforded unparalleled views of the snowy landscape.

He helped them up, then swung up behind them. He was not surprised to see Mr Rothwell and Harriet rushing to join them. Mr Rothwell helped Harriet into the coach. Laughing, she budged onto the seat beside Callum, pushing him against Miss Rothwell, who sat beside him.

“How diverting!” she said, a big grin on her face. Callum laughed.

“My legs might disagree with you,” he told her with a grimace. “You leave them no room.”

Opposite them in the coach, the two younger Miss Rothwells chuckled. The carriage was unusually cramped, with barely enough space for six passengers and the driver, adding a touch of levity to the situation.

“Well, then,” Mr Rothwell declared, clambering up into the groom’s seat at the back of the coach. “We can set off!”

Callum turned to squint up at him with some annoyance. Guests would not usually sit on the rear seat, which was uncomfortable and little better than balancing on the running-board of a normal coach. Mr Rothwell was grinning serenely and Callum wanted to laugh when he guessed that it was because he wanted to be close to Harriet.

The driver climbed up onto his seat and they set off.

They rolled out of the gate and the coach headed downwards, following the road that curved up towards Stallenwood Village.

They arrived after half an hour, the rest of the guests drawing up in their own coaches on the village green. Callum jumped down, his legs tingling and his feet jarring on the hard, snow-covered ground. He reached up to assist Miss Rothwell down. Her eyes were sparkling.

“When shall we begin?” she asked him as he helped her sisters and Harriet out.

“As soon as the hampers arrive. Mother has no doubt informed the villagers of our unconventional arrival.” Dozens of people dressed in their finery poured out of the expensive carriages. The village craftsmen and poor would have a big surprise. That was the tradition on St. Stephen’s Day. The artisans who had worked for the family—that was, the carters, builders, farriers, painters and others—would be gifted with a hamper to thank them for their services. The household staff would likewise receive hampers to take back to their families. Those, though, Mother had decided to give out on the right day, so that the staff could take them home on their day off. Any remaining hampers would be graciously distributed to those in need.

Miss Rothwell was grinning with delight, and he followed her gaze to see four or five children gazing over at them, round-eyed. The children were tattily dressed, their faces pinched with hunger and one of them—a boy of around fourteen—was dirt-speckled in a way that suggested that he worked as a sweep. Callum’s heart twisted uncomfortably. The difficulties faced by many in his duchy were never far from his mind, but he found it hard to face them directly; it would unsettle him deeply.

“Look! Let’s begin with them. Have we any oranges?” Miss Rothwell asked him briskly.

Callum frowned. “We ought to take the hampers to the craftsmen’s homes first,” he reminded her gently. She shook her head.

“Look at them. They look so excited. Please, let’s! I would love to give them a surprise. And is that not what Christmas is about?”

Callum sighed. “I will ask Mr Morton if he has any oranges,” he told her, stalking across the gap to where the cart had just arrived.

“Oranges?” Mr Morton looked shocked. “They are all in the hampers, Your Grace.”

“I know,” Callum said with a weary exhalation. “But, indulge me. Have you really no extra oranges to speak of?”

“Well...” Mr Morton shrugged. “There is a bag. But those are for the staff, and...”

“Give me six of them,” Callum asked. “And the staff who do not receive oranges will be compensated with money.”

“Um...yes. Yes, Your Grace,” Mr Morton said swiftly. He opened a cloth sack and passed down six oranges. Callum looked around, then took off his top-hat and put them inside as Miss Rothwell came to join him.

“Hurrah!” she exclaimed, taking the hat from him. “Thank you! Oh, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Callum said quietly, watching her as she rushed off across the snow. He had thought she was going to join her brother and sisters, but instead, she took off towards the six children. Callum tensed. Images of them rushing her, trying to steal her jewels, filled him with fear and he ran after her. He stopped three paces away.

“My lady! Cor! Blimey,” the boy was saying, eyes round as she handed him the orange. He looked at it fearfully, as though he had never seen one before. “Is that for me?”

“Yes. Merry Christmas!” Miss Rothwell said brightly.

Callum watched as the boy tucked the orange into his pocket, looking around as though he feared that someone would take it from him.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” Miss Rothwell murmured to a little girl, dark-haired and bundled in a worsted shawl, as she passed her another orange. The little girl’s dark eyes widened.

“For me?” she whispered.

“Yes. Of course, it is for you. Merry Christmas,” Miss Rothwell said, bending down to realign the little girl’s shawl that was slipping down her shoulders.

Callum let out a sigh. The children surrounded her in a half-circle, gazing up at her. They were half-afraid, half mesmerised, and he stood where he was, reluctant to disturb. Miss Rothwell handed out her oranges. Her face fell as another two children arrived.

“I have nothing,” she began, voice aching. The little girl gazed longingly at the oranges and Callum tensed, considering running back to see if he could filch some from the butler’s cart. As he watched, Miss Rothwell dug in her reticule and took out two coins. “Here.”

Callum’s heart twisted as the little girls both stared at her in amazement.

“Cor!” One lisped. “Pastries! We can buy pastries.”

Callum’s soul lifted. He had a purse with coins in it under the seat in the coach—he always kept it there lest unforeseen expenses arise on the road. He ran to the coach to fetch it.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into her hand as he hurried back across the snow. “Give these to as many children as you can find.”

“Your Grace?” Miss Rothwell blinked. Then she beamed at him as she understood. “Thank you.”

Callum looked away. Her joy in giving affected him greatly. He had always enjoyed giving, but it was something that he had crushed in himself. The years of having to mind every cent because of the debts had forced that joy out of him, making him think of charity as a wasteful indulgence. Now, however, a spark of joy kindled in his heart once more, and he moved toward the cart.

“Blankets,” he said to the butler, who was passing hampers to the guests to take to the craftsmen’s families. “We should distribute them to the poor and those in need.”

“Your Grace? The blankets are gifts for the tradespeople of the village,” the butler demurred.

“We pay the tradespeople for their goods,” Callum argued. “They will be compensated. But please, do this. It is Christmas. We cannot let good people freeze in their homes.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler said, sounding sceptical. His face was stiff with disapproval as he passed a bundle of blankets down to Callum. He looked around, unsure what to do, but Harriet ran over.

“Blankets! Brother! What a grand idea.”

Callum beamed, straightening up gratefully as she took the load of blankets. The butler wordlessly passed him another.

“Thank you, sister. If you and Miss Rothwell can distribute these?”

“Yes! Yes, let’s. Join us, brother!” she called as she walked briskly off to join Miss Rothwell. Word must have spread, because there were more children clustered around her, and two beggars, dressed in patched, old clothing, shivering in the cold.

Callum watched as Harriet, grinning warmly, passed one of the beggars a blanket. The man’s eyes widened and he gazed at it in disbelief.

“For me?” he asked. He had several missing teeth, Callum noticed, his skin raw and rough from days outdoors and his fingers gnarled and blue-white with cold.

“Yes! Merry Christmas,” Harriet said with a grin.

The look in the man’s eyes twisted Callum’s heart. He was almost mistrustful, almost sceptical. Callum rushed up to join them, overcoming the last of his inhibitions.

“Here,” he said, thrusting one of his blankets towards the woman in a tatty, thin shawl. Her eyes widened.

“No, good master,” she said, sounding shocked. “You cannot give me that. It’s...it’s fine wool.”

“It is yours,” Callum said firmly. His throat was tight, his eyes damp. “Take it, and I wish you a merry Christmas.”

“No, good master,” she stammered again. She took the blanket, though, and Callum watched as she smoothed her hand over the wool.

Miss Rothwell was surrounded by children. He gazed over at her, feeling concerned, but she beamed at him, eyes shining.

He went to fetch more blankets, dazed by her dazzling grin. The blankets seemed heavy, and more and more poor people seemed to be drifting onto the village green. The other guests had largely disappeared, dispensing the hampers to the craftsmen or milling about the cart, waiting for more goods to be passed out for them to give away.

He carried the blankets towards where Miss Rothwell stood with five villagers. Harriet and Mr Rothwell were handing out more blankets, this time to a thin-faced young woman with a baby in her arms.

“Merry Christmas,” Miss Rothwell was murmuring as she handed out coins, blankets and whatever else she had. “Merry Christmas!”

Callum came over to join her. “Merry Christmas!” he said with a smile, handing a blanket to a poorly dressed man who gazed at it with the same wary eyes he had seen so often.

The village was not very big, and, as such, its population of poor people was also not extremely large. The group thinned and soon Callum and Miss Rothwell stood by themselves.

“This is a wonderful day,” Miss Rothwell said, her grin huge as she turned to him.

Callum swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, it is. A wonderful day.”

He took her hand and they stood silently as Miss Rothwell’s sisters, Harriet and Mr Rothwell came to join them. His heart was full, too many emotions flitting through him to express. Joy was there, and appreciation, and contentment. He gazed at Miss Rothwell.

She has given me so much, he thought wordlessly. More than all the blankets, coins and oranges in the world. She had returned his joy of giving, his joy of doing as he felt was right in his own heart. He beamed at her. She smiled back.

It was a wonderful day, he thought silently. And a wonderful lesson. And, he thought with a wry smile, they would soon be home.

He could not wait to enjoy the warmth of a cup of chocolate and a conversation with her. It would be a real pleasure.