The Christmas Tart
IT began with a ring. One day late in November 1809, the irritable Lady Guthrie was careless when she searched through her lacquered jewelry case for the best ornaments to adorn her scrawny person. The heirloom diamond ring that had come from her husband's family was valuable but ugly, and she brushed it aside impatiently as she searched for more attractive treasures.
Amidst the clinking of baubles, she didn't notice when the ring tumbled from the case, rolled unevenly across the lace-covered surface of the dressing table, then dropped into the narrow gap between table and wall. Halfway to the floor, the heavy ring hooked over a wooden peg that had worked loose until it projected from the back of the table.
And there the ring stayed, suspended, not to be found until the next year's spring cleaning. But by then Christmas had come and gone, and so had the young French seamstress.
A cold, heavy sky made the afternoon seem more like dusk, and it was difficult for Nicole Chambord to see the riding jacket that she was trimming. Closing her eyes for a moment, she laid the jacket down and straightened up, stretching her arms in an effort to relieve the strain on her back and neck. Sacre bleu! but she would be glad when Christmas was over.
During the month that Nicole had been sewing for Lady Guthrie, she had not had a single afternoon off, and every night she had worked late by candlelight to complete everything her ladyship deemed necessary for the holidays. While Lady Guthrie's important clothing was done by an expensive modiste, there were many lesser items, such as chemises and undergowns, that could be made by a household seamstress. And of course there was always mending, refurbishing older garments, and making shirts and cravats for Sir Wilfrid, the master of the house. Nicole had sewed so much that she wore white cotton gloves to prevent her sore, pricked fingers from bleeding onto valuable fabric.
Still, food in the Guthrie establishment was abundant, if bland, and most of the other servants were pleasant. Best of all, Nicole was now living in London, closer to her goal than she had been in Bristol, where she had lived for fourteen years. Come spring, she would look for a situation with a fashionable dressmaker who would be willing to take advantage of an assistant's design skills. Someday, after much hard work and saving of money, Nicole would open a shop of her own called Nicole's, or perhaps Madame Chambord's.
She luxuriated in the thought for a moment, then sighed and returned to her work. The happy day when she would be self-employed was many years away. Just now, her task was to use her nearly invisible stitches to attach military-style braid to the jacket in her lap.
She was just finishing the job when the butler, Furbes, swept into the small workroom without knocking. "Her ladyship wishes to speak with you, Chambord," he snapped. "Immediately."
"Of course," Nicole murmured, unalarmed by his manner, for Furbes was always rude to his inferiors, and Lady Guthrie was always in a hurry. Likely her ladyship had decided that a project she had wanted completed tomorrow must instead be done today. It would not be the first time.
But instead of normal impatience, Nicole found disaster. As the French girl entered Lady Guthrie's bedroom, her mistress spun around to glare at her. "You stole the Guthrie diamond ring," she said furiously. "What have you done with it?"
Nicole was so shocked that for a moment her usually nimble tongue was paralyzed. "But no, my lady, I have never seen your ring, nor have I taken even a candle stub from your room. Could the ring have been misplaced?"
"It's gone." Lady Guthrie gestured at her abigail, who wore a distressed expression. "Merkle has searched everywhere, including all the drawers and the floor under the dressing table. And tonight we dine with my husband's family, and his mother will want to know why I don't wear it!"
Still not quite believing the accusation, Nicole said in bewilderment, "I am sorry if your mother-in-law will be upset, but why are you accusing me? There are a dozen servants in this house, or a thief could have broken in and robbed you. I swear on my mother's grave that I have stolen nothing from you."
"Any thief who broke in would have taken the whole case, not just the ring, and all my other servants have been with me for years. You've been here less than a month, and you're clever—I saw that right away. You probably thought I wouldn't notice if only a single piece of jewelry was missing, especially one I almost never wear, and you've had ample opportunity, because you often work alone in this room," Lady Guthrie retorted. "As soon as I thought of you, I had your room searched, and Furbes found the proof hidden under your mattress."
She lifted a leather pouch from her dressing table, then dropped it again, the coins inside clinking as the pouch hit the tabletop. "Over fifty pounds! Where could you get such a sum except by theft?"
Nicole stared in horror at the bag that contained her life savings. "For years I have spent nothing on myself so I could save every shilling possible." All of it dedicated to the dream of a future. "Surely if I had stolen your precious diamond ring, I would have more money than that."
"Stolen goods go for only a fraction of their true value." Lady Guthrie's faded blue eyes narrowed triumphantly. "And just how did you know that the ring was a diamond?"
"Because you said so yourself!" Nicole exclaimed, feeling as if she had wandered into Bedlam. "Mon Dieu, your ladyship, if you have been robbed, call a magistrate. I am not afraid to be questioned, for I am innocent."
Before Lady Guthrie could respond, her maid Merkle said hesitantly, "Perhaps the chit is telling the truth, my lady. Her references were spleendid, and she has always done her work well, with not a shred of complaint from anyone. There is no proof that she took the ring."
Nicole could have kissed the other servant for her bravery in speaking up, but it did no good.
Her employer's mouth tightened to a harsh line. "Bah, she belongs in Newgate, but if she blinks those big brown eyes at the magistrate, I don't suppose she'll get what she deserves, so there's no point in turning her over to the law." Lady Guthrie scowled at the seamstress as she decided j what to do. "You're dismissed right now, girl, without a reference."
She lifted the pouch again, her bony fingers digging into the thin leather. "This I will keep as compensation for your theft."
Appalled, Nicole gasped, "How dare you! That is my money and if you take it, it is you who are the thief!"
"Don't speak to her ladyship like that, you little slut," Furbes ordered. The butler had been a silent witness to the exchange, but now he grasped Nicole's shoulder with cruel pressure. "Shall I allow her to gather her belongings, my lady, or put her out on the street as she is?"
"Let her gather her things, but watch to see that she doesn't try to take' anything else," Lady Guthrie decided. Turning back to Nicole, she said viciously, "You can thank the fact that it's almost Christmas for my mercy, girl."
And that was that. Ten minutes later, still dazed by the swiftness events, Nicole was standing in the alley behind the house, having beer escorted out the kitchen door by Furbes. Everything she owned in the world was in a canvas bag slung over her shoulder.
She shivered, and not just because a cold, misty rain was saturating in her threadbare cloak. She had never been so frightened in her life, even when her family had fled France to escape the Reign of Terror. Only six years old, she had seen that as a grand adventure, serene in her trust that j no harm could befall her when she was with her parents.
But now both parents were dead and she was utterly alone, without a situation, money, or references to help her find another job. If she had been in Bristol, she could have found shelter with friends, but not in Lon-1 don, where Nicole knew no one but the servants in the Guthrie household. To make matters worse, it was Saturday afternoon and within a couple of hours all of the modistes' shops would be closed until monday morning.
She set her chin and began marching down the street. There was nothing she could do to prove her innocence or recover her savings from Lady Guthrie, so there was no point in wasting time on regrets or curses at life's unfairness. All of her e
nergy must go toward survival.
She had just reached the street when the kitchen door opened and a low voice called her name. She glanced back and saw Merkle standing in the door and beckoning. Nicole obeyed the summons, but as she approached the maid, she said bitterly, "Has Lady Guthrie decided I cannot take my own clothing? I should think my things would be too poor for her taste."
"She hasn't changed her mind about anything," Merkle said sadly. "I'm sorry, Nicole, I don't believe you stole the ring, but there's nothing to be done with the old besom when she's in a mood like this. She knows her husband and his family will be furious with her for losing the ring, and she had to take it out on someone. A pity it was you. And to discharge you so close to Christmas!"
The maid had a mass of scarlet fabric draped over her arm, and now she raised it for Nicole's inspection. "Take this cloak. It was one of her ladyship's mistakes in judgment so she gave it to me after one season. Too gaudy for my taste, so I've never worn it, but it's warmer than that old thing you're wearing. Here, put it on."
Nicole's first reaction was to refuse to take anything that had been Lady Guthrie's, but practicality overcame her principles. Accepting the scarlet cloak, she draped it over her own thin garments. Immediately she felt warmer, though considering the color and the vulgar feather trimming, she understood why neither Lady Guthrie nor Merkle wanted it.
Next Merkle offered a greasy packet wrapped in newspaper. "Here's a meat pie. It's all I could take without Cook noticing. And here's five shillings. For that, you should be able to rent a room for a few nights if you know where to look."
"Where might I find such a place?" Nicole asked. "In the month I've been in London, I have learned nothing of the city."
The maid thought for a moment. "Around Covent Garden might be best. There are plenty of lodgings, and when the market is open you should be able to get damaged produce at a good price. But be careful, child. London streets aren't safe at night, and sometimes not even in the day, leastwise not for a girl as pretty as you." She sighed. "I only wish I could have convinced her ladyship not to blame you for the ring's disappearance. Lord only knows what happened to the blasted thing."
Trying to sound confident, Nicole said, "Don't worry about me. I'm on my way now to seek employment. The money and food you have provided will keep me until I can start work." On impulse, she rose on her toes and kissed the other servant on the cheek. "Thank you, Miss Merkle. You are a good woman."
Then Nicole turned and set off without looking back.
FOR a gentleman about town, there was no more desirable residence than the Rochester. The rooms were elegant and the discreet staff always ready to provide any service required. That was convenient for Sir Philip Selbourne, since his valet had a cold and had been left home in Northamptonshire. At the moment, however, Philip was not reflecting on his good fortune. In fact, as he climbed the front steps of the Rochester, head bent and mind absorbed in calculations, he was so abstracted that he quite literally ran into his best friends.
The baronet was murmuring an absent apology when a familiar voice said, "Philip! You've just arrived in town?"
Brought back to the present, Philip raised his head to discover the/! Honorable James Kirby and Francis, Lord Masterson, another close friend. After greeting both men and shaking their hands, Philip said, "I've been here for two days. This is only a quick trip to take care of some business."
"And you didn't let either of us know?" Kirby said reproachfully. At twenty-five he was the same age as Philip, but his round face and flaming red hair made him seem younger. "With all three of us living in the same building, you can't say that it was too much effort to call! It's been months since we've seen you in town—surely not since March." Abruptly he stopped speaking as he remembered why his friend had left London then.
Philip grimaced. "I've been deucedly busy since my father died. Having grown up at Winstead Hall, I thought I knew something about farming, but it turns out that I knew a good deal less than I believed. His death has caused a number of unexpected complications."
Lord Masterson's cool voice said, "Problems? That surprises me. I would have thought Sir Charles the last man on earth to mismanage his affairs."
"He didn't," Philip said, quick to defend his father. "One of the difficulties is the unexpected number of investments he left, none of which I knew anything about." He gave a wry smile. "In the last six months, I've worked harder at educating myself than all the years at Winchester and Cambridge put together."
"Come along and tell us all about it while we dine," Kirby urged. "It's too cold to converse here on the steps."
"Sorry, I can't accept," Philip said regretfully. "In a few minutes my solicitor is coming, and we're going to spend the afternoon finishing the business that brought me to London. I want to return to Winstead tomorrow morning."
"Stay an extra day," Masterson suggested. "So many people have left to spend the holiday in the country that town is rather thin of company." 1 le gave a faint, charming smile. "Under the circumstances, even you offer welcome diversion."
Philip returned the smile, but shook his head. "I really must get back. This Christmas will be hard for my mother."
"Then join us for dinner in my rooms," Kirby said, undeterred. "With the three of us together, it will be like old times at Winchester."
Philip hesitated, tempted, then shook his head again. "I really can't. The solicitor will leave mountains of documents, and it will take me all evening to go over them."
"Surely your fusty documents can wait another day," Kirby said, his wide blue eyes showing hurt.
Before Philip could answer, Masterson raised his dark, elegant brows. "You must remember to take time for your friends, Philip, or someday when you need them, you may find that you have none."
Philip felt color rising in his cheeks. "You still know the best place to strike, Masterson. No wonder you were so good at fencing."
He sighed ruefully. "You are both absolutely correct. In the last six months I've spent so much time running in circles and feeling incompetent that I've half forgotten why life is worth living. I'd be delighted to join you for dinner. Seven o'clock in your rooms, Jamie?" After the time was confirmed, he touched his hat in farewell and swiftly climbed the last steps into the Rochester.
Frowning, Kirby watched until his friend disappeared into the building. Then he turned and fell into step with Masterson as the two your men walked toward St. James, where they would be able to find a hack. "Philip's not looking at all well. He's been working too hard."
"Very likely," Masterson agreed. "It was quite a shock for him when his father died so unexpectedly—they always got on amazingly well. Being the responsible sort, Philip's obviously feeling the weight of being head of the family."
"He really needs to relax a bit before he goes dashing back to the country," Kirby mused. "Now, what's most relaxing?"
Recognizing the tone, Masterson eyed his companion with misgiving, for Kirby's innocent face masked the devil's own capacity for mischief. "Dinner with friends is relaxing, and just to make sure, I'll send down half a dozen bottles of my best claret. That will relax all of us."
Ignoring the comment, Kirby said with an air of great enlightenment, "Females are relaxing. That's it—what Philip needs is a girl." Turning his wide blue eyes to his companion, he said, "Let's find one and put her in his bed tonight."
Masterson stopped dead in the street. "You've finally lost your mind," S he said flatly. "The first day you showed up to fag for me at Winchester and I saw that shade of red hair, I knew your sanity was precarious.; Granted, females are sometimes relaxing, but just as often they play the very devil with one's sanity. Besides, Philip is quite capable of finding a girl of his own if he wants one, but at the moment, he has other things on his mind besides dalliance."
"Which is why he needs a girl to cheer him up," Kirby said. "A nice jolly one will make a perfect Christmas present. While Philip's dining with us, your valet can spirit her into his rooms. Now, w
here can we find one?" He pondered. "You can ask Michelle if she has a friend who's free tonight."
"Neither Michelle nor her friends come free," Masterson said dryly, "And as it happens, she and I came to a parting of the ways last week. If I went to her house and asked her to find another female, she'd likely drop a chamber pot on my head."
Undeterred, Kirby said, "Then we'll have to find a girl somewhere else."
The two men were still arguing as they hailed a hack and set off to lunch, but already Masterson was resigning himself to the inevitable. Kirby was bound and determined on his plan, so Masterson had better cooperate to make sure that the thing was done right.
AFTER more than twenty-four hours without eating, Nicole was so cold, hungry, and tired that she was unsteady on her feet. It was time to eat the meat pie Merkle had given her, so she turned into a small, cluttered alley and sank wearily onto a stone step. Then she pulled out the cold pie and held it, wanting to postpone the moment when it would be gone.
Her spirits were as low as they had ever been in her life, for her determined efforts to find a situation the day before had come to nothing. Two modistes had refused to talk to her since she had no London references. Three more had said that they weren't hiring and wouldn't be for months, for the Christmas rush was over and business would be slack until spring, when the ton returned to London to prepare for the Season. Nicole had not expected that, and had been frightened to realize that it might be months before she might find a position as a seamstress.
Not wanting to spend her five shillings before she had to, Nicole had slept rough the night before, shivering in a deserted corner of a stable yard behind an unoccupied house in Kensington. The night was dry and she was protected from the wind, but even so she had been numb with cold by morning. Because it was Sunday, she had gone to church, partly to be under a roof, and partly because prayer seemed in order. The vicar had read the Christmas story, and Nicole had found herself with new empathy for Mary and Joseph, who had found no room at the inn. Closing her eyes, she uttered a silent prayer that she, too, would find the shelter she so desperately needed.