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Standard disclaimer.
December swept over Hampshire, bringing chilling breezes and whitening the trees and hedgerows with frost.
In the household, there was a general enthusiasm for the approaching holiday, and Gwen soon gave up any hope of curtailing the celebrations.
She found herself surrendering by degrees.
First, she consented to let the servants plan their own party on Christmas Eve, then, she agreed to allow a large fir tree in the entrance hall.
And then, Will asked, if the festivities could be expanded even more.
He found her in the study, laboring over correspondence.
"May I interrupt you for a few moments?" he asked.
"Of course." She gestured to a chair near her writing desk, and set the pen in its holder. Noticing the deliberately bland expression on his face, she asked, "What scheme are you hatching?"
He blinked in surprise.
"How do you know there's a scheme?"
"Whenever you try to look innocent, it's obvious you're up to something."
Will grinned.
"The girls wouldn't dare approach you about it, but I told them I would, since, it's been established, that I can outrun you when necessary." He paused. "It seems, that Lord and Lady Pendragon, used to invite all the tenant families and some local tradesmen, to a party on Christmas Eve..."
"Absolutely not!"
"Yes, that was my first reaction. However..." He gave her a patient, cajoling glance. "...Encouraging a spirit of community, would benefit everyone on the estate."
He paused.
"It's not that different, from the charitable visits you pay to those families individually."
Gwen buried her face in her hands with a groan.
A grand party. Music. Presents, sweets, holiday cheer. She knew exactly what Lady Gemswick would have said.
It is indecent to host such revelry in a house of mourning. It is wrong to steal a day or two of joy, out of a year that had been set aside for sorrow.
Worst of all, Gwen secretly wanted to do it.
She spoke through her fingers.
"It's not proper," she said weakly. "We haven't done anything the way we should. The black was taken from the windows far too early, and no one's wearing veils anymore, and..."
"No one gives a damn," Will said. "Do you think any of the tenants would blame you, for setting aside your mourning, just for one night? To the contrary, they would appreciate it, as a gesture of kindness and goodwill. I know next to nothing about Christmas, of course, but even so...it strikes me, as being in keeping with the spirit of the holiday."
At her long hesitation, he went in for the kill.
"I'll pay for it out of my own income. After all..." A touch of self-pity shaded his voice. "...how else am I to learn about Christmas?"
Lowering her hands, Gwen gave him a dark glance.
"You're a shameless manipulator, William Pendragon."
He grinned.
"I knew you'd say yes."
"It's a very tall tree," Cassandra commented, a week later, as they stood in the entrance hall.
"We've never had one this large before," Mrs. Winterbourne admitted, with a perturbed frown.
Together, they watched, as Will, a pair of footmen, and the butler, struggled, to heft the trunk of an enormous fir, into a metal tub filled with stones.
Suffice it to say, the air was filled with masculine grunts and profanity.
And shiny green needles sprinkled across the floor, while pencil-thin cones scattered, as the tree was hoisted upward.
The under-butler of the house, stood halfway up the curving grand staircase, holding the end of a cord, which had been tied to an upper section of the trunk.
On the other side of the hall, Bia and Athena, stood at the second-floor balcony, gripping another attached cord.
Once the trunk was positioned perfectly, the cords would be tied to the balustrade spindles, to keep the tree from tilting to one side or the other.
The under-butler pulled the cord steadily, while Will and the footmen pushed from below.
Gradually, the fir eased upright, its boughs spreading majestically, to fan a pungent evergreen scent through the air.
"It smells heavenly," Cassandra exclaimed, inhaling deeply. "Did Lord and Lady Gemswick have a Christmas tree, Gwen?"
"Every year." Gwen smiled. "But only a small one, because, Lady Gemswick said it was a pagan custom."
"Athena, we'll need many more ornaments!" they heard Bia exclaim, from the second-floor balcony. "We've never had a tree this tall before."
"We'll make another batch of candles," her twin replied.
"No more candles," Gwen called up to them. "This tree is already a fire hazard."
"But Gwen," Bia said, looking down at her, "The tree will look dreadful, if we don't have enough decorations. It will look positively undressed."
"Perhaps, we could tie some sweets in scraps of netting and ribbon," Cassandra suggested. "It would look pretty, with them hanging from the branches."
Will brushed leaves from his hands and used his thumb to rub off a spot of sap on his palm.
"You all might want to look in the crate, that was delivered from Harcourt's this morning," he said. "I'm sure it contains some Christmas finery."
All movement and sound in the hall was instantly extinguished, as everyone looked at him.
"What crate?" Gwen demanded. "Why did you keep it a secret until now?"
Will gave her a speaking glance and pointed to the corner, where a massive wooden crate had been set.
"It's hardly been a secret...it's been there for hours. And I've been too busy with this blasted tree to make conversation."
"Did you order it?"
"No. Arthur mentioned in his last letter, that Mr. Harcourt was sending some holiday trimmings from his store, as a gesture of appreciation for inviting him over."
"I did not invite Mr. Harcourt," Gwen retorted, "And we certainly can't accept gifts from a stranger."
"They're not for you, they're for the household. Hang it all, it's just a few baubles and wisps of tinsel."
She stared at him uncertainly.
"I don't think we should. I'm not certain of the etiquette, but it doesn't seem proper. He's an unmarried gentleman, and this is a household of young women, who have only me as a chaperone. If I were ten years older and had an established reputation, it might be different, but as things are..."
"I'm a member of the household," Will protested. "Doesn't that make the situation more respectable?"
Gwen looked at him.
"You're joking, aren't you?"
he rolled his eyes.
"My point is, if anyone were to try and attach some improper meaning to Mr. Harcourt's gift, the fact that I'm here, would..."
He stopped, as he heard a choking sound from Cassandra, who had turned very red.
"Cassandra?" Gwen called, in concern, but the girl had turned away, her shoulders shaking.
Gwen sent Will an alarmed glance.
"Cassandra," he said quietly, striding forward and taking her upper arms in an urgent grasp. "Sweetheart, are you ill? What..."
He paused, as she shook her head violently and gasped out something, one of her hands flailing in the direction behind them.
Will looked up alertly. Suddenly, his face changed, and he began to laugh.
"What is the matter with you two?" Gwen demanded.
Glancing around the entrance hall, she realized the crate was no longer in the corner. The twins must have raced downstairs, the moment it had been mentioned.
Clutching it on either side, they lugged it furtively towards the receiving room.
"Girls," Gwen said sharply, "Bring that back here at once!"
But it was too late.
The receiving room's double doors closed, accompanied by the click of a key turning in the lock. And Gwen stopped short, her jaw slackening.
Meanwhile, Will and Cassandra staggered together, overcome with hilarity.
"I'll have you know," Mrs. Winterbourne said in amazement, "It took our two stoutest footmen, to bring that crate into the house. How did two young ladies manage to carry it away so quickly?"
"Sh-sheer determination," Cassandra wheezed.
"All I want in this life," Will told Gwen, "Is to see you try, to pry that crate away from those two."
"I wouldn't dare," she replied, giving up. "They would do me bodily harm."
Cassandra wiped at a stray tear of mirth.
"Come, Gwen, let's go see what Mr. Harcourt sent. You too, Mrs. Winterbourne."
"They won't let us into the room," Gwen muttered.
Cassandra grinned at her.
"They will, if I ask."
The twins, busy as squirrels, had already unpacked a multitude of wrapped parcels, when they finally allowed everyone into the receiving room.
Even the butler, under-butler, and footmen, ventured to the doorway, to have a peek at the contents of the crate.
It resembled a pirate's treasure chest, overflowing with blown glass spheres, painted to look like fruit, papier-mâché birds decorated with real feathers, clever tin figures of dancers and soldiers and animals.
There was even a large box of miniature colored glass cups, or fairy lights, meant to be filled with oil and floating candle wicks, to hang on the tree.
"A fire will be inevitable," Gwen said in worry, looking at the multitude of candle cups.
"We'll station a pair of boys with pails of water next to the tree, when it's lit," Mrs. Winterbourne reassured her. "If any of the branches catches fire, they'll douse it right away."
Everyone gasped, as Bia unearthed a large Christmas angel from the crate. It's porcelain face was framed by golden hair, while a pair of gilded wings, protruded from the back of a little satin gown, embellished with pearls and gold thread.
While the family and servants gathered reverently, to view the magnificent creation, Gwen took Will's arm and tugged him out of the room.
"Something is going on here," she said. "I want to know the real reason, why the Earl has invited Mr. Harcourt."
They stopped in the space beneath the grand staircase, behind the tree.
"Can't he show hospitality to a friend, without an ulterior motive?" Will parried.
She shook her head.
"Everything your brother does, has an ulterior motive. Why has he invited Mr. Harcourt?"
"Harcourt has his finger in many pies. I believe Arthur hopes to benefit from his advice, and at some future date, enter into a business deal with him."
That sounded reasonable enough. But her intuition still warned, that there was something fishy about the situation.
"How did they become acquainted?"
"About three years ago, Mr. Harcourt was nominated for membership, at two different London clubs, but was rejected by both of them. He is a commoner, his father was a Welsh grocer. So after hearing the sniggering, about how he had been refused, Arthur arranged to have our club, Brabbler's, offer a membership to him. And Harcourt never forgets a favor."
"Brabbler's?" Gwen repeated. "What an odd name."
"It's the word for a fellow, who tends to argue over trifles." Will looked down and rubbed at a sticky spot of sap on the heel of his hand. "Brabbler's is a second-tier club, for those who aren't allowed into White's or Brooks's, but it includes some of the most successful and clever men in London."
"Such as Mr. Harcourt."
"Exactly!."
"What is he like? What is his character?"
Will shrugged.
"He's a quiet sort, but he can be as charming as the devil if it suits him."
"Is he young or old?"
"Thirty years, or thereabouts."
"And his appearance? Is he well-favored?"
"The ladies certainly seem to think so. Although with his fortune, he could look like a toad and they would still flock to him."
"Is he a good man?"
"One doesn't acquire a fortune by being a choirboy."
Holding his gaze, Gwen realized, that was the most she was going to pry from him.
"The Earl and Mr. Harcourt, are scheduled to arrive tomorrow afternoon, are they not?" she asked.
"Yes, I'll go to meet them at Alton Station. Would you like to accompany me?"
"Thank you, but my time will be better spent, with Mrs. Winterbourne and Cook, making certain, everything is prepared."
She sighed and cast a rueful glance at the looming tree, feeling guilty and uneasy.
"I hope none of the local gentry hears about all our festivities. But I'm sure they will. I shouldn't allow any of this. You know that, don't you?"
"But since you have," Will said, patting her shoulder, "You may as well try to enjoy it."
"You're going to be nominated for membership at White's," Mr. Harcourt said, as the train rattled and swayed along the route, from London to Hampshire.
Although their private compartment in the first-class carriage, could have easily accommodated four more passengers, Mr. Harcourt had paid to keep the seats empty, so they could have the space to themselves.
Arthur's valet, Simmons, was traveling in one of the lower-class carriages, farther back in the train.
Arthur shot Harcourt a look of surprise.
"How do you know that?" he asked.
Mr. Harcourt's only reply, was an oblique glance.
He often knew about people's private business, before they themselves had learned of it. Since, almost, everyone in London had applied to his store for credit, the man knew intimate details about their finances, their purchases, and their personal habits.
In addition, much of what the store employees overheard on the floors, was funneled upward to his office.
"They needn't bother," Arthur said, stretching his legs, into the space between the seats. "I wouldn't accept."
"White's is a more prestigious club than Brabbler's."
"Most clubs are," Arthur rejoined wryly. "But the air is a bit too thin, in such elevated circles. And if White's didn't want me before I was an Earl, there's no reason for them to want me now. I'm unchanged in every regard, except, for the fact, that I'm now as deeply in debt, as the rest of the peerage."
"That's not the only change. You've gained social and political power."
"Power without capital...I'd rather have money."
Harcourt shook his head.
"Always choose power. Money can be stolen or devalued, and then you're left with nothing. With power, one can always acquire more money."
"I hope you're right about that."
"I'm always right," he said flatly.
Few men could make such a statement convincingly, but Mr. Harcourt certainly could.
He was one of those rare individuals, who had been born in the perfect time and place, to suit his abilities.
In a staggeringly short time, he had built his father's ramshackle shop, into a mercantile empire.
He had an instinct for quality and a shrewd understanding of the public appetite. And somehow, he could always identify what people wanted to buy, before they themselves knew.
As a well-known public figure, he had a vast array of friends, acquaintances, and enemies, but no one could truthfully claim to know the man.
Reaching for a decanter, which had been set on a railed shelf, affixed to the teak paneling beneath the window, Mr. Harcourt poured two malt whiskeys and handed one to Arthur.
After a silent toast, they settled back into the plush seats and watched the ever-changing view through the window.
The luxurious compartment was one of three in the carriage, each with its own set of doors, that opened to the outside.
The doors had been locked by a porter, a standard railway practice, to prevent un-ticketed passengers, from sneaking aboard.
For the same reasons, the windows had been barred with brass rods.
So to distract himself, from the vague feeling of being trapped, Arthur focused on the scenery.
How much smaller England had become, now that it was possible to cover a distance, in a matter of hours, rather than days.
There was scarcely time to absorb the scenery, before it had rushed by, which inspired some people, to call the railway a 'magician's road'.
The train crossed bridges, pastures, public thoroughfares, and ancient villages. It had just passed through deep chalk cuttings, and was now chugging by open heath.
Seconds later, the Hampshire hills appeared, slopes of dark wintry green, hunkering beneath the white afternoon sky.
And the prospect of arriving home, filled Arthur with anticipation.
He had brought presents for everyone in the family, but he had deliberated the longest, about what to give to Gwen.
At one of the jeweler's counters in Harcourt's, he had found an unusual cameo brooch...an exquisitely carved scene, of a Greek goddess riding a horse. The cream-colored cameo, was set against an onyx background and framed with tiny white seed pearls.
Since the cameo was set in onyx, the saleswoman at the counter had told Arthur, it was suitable for a lady in mourning.
Even the pearls were acceptable, since they were said to represent tears. So Arthur had purchased it on the spot.
It had been delivered to him this morning, and he had slipped it into his pocket, before leaving for the railway station.
He was impatient to see Gwen again, hungry for the sight of her and the sound of her voice.
He had missed her smiles, her frowns, and her endearing frustrations with impropriety, pigs and plumbers.
Filled with anticipation, Arthur contemplated the scenery, as the train struggled to the summit of a hill and began the downward slope.
Soon they would cross the River Wey, and then, it would be only a mile to the station at Alton.
The railway cars were only half full...a far greater number of passengers would travel the next day, on Christmas Eve.
The train's momentum gathered, as they approached the bridge, but the forward-hurtling force of the engine, was upset by a sudden jerk and lurch.
Instantly Arthur's ears were filled with the metallic shrieks of brakes. Then, the carriage erupted with violent shudders.
Reflexively he grabbed one of the brass window bars, to keep from being bounced out of his seat.
In the next second, a tremendous impact jolted his hand loose of the brass bar...actually, the bar itself had come loose...and the window shattered, as the carriage wrenched free of the rails.
Then, Arthur was thrown into a chaos of glass, splintering wood, twisting metal, and unholy noise.
A wild heave was accompanied by the snap of the couplings, and then, there was the sensation of plunging, and tumbling, as he and Mr. Harcourt, were thrown across the compartment.
Blinding white light filled Arthur's eyes, as he tried to find a fixed point in all the madness. But he kept falling, helpless to stop the descent, until his body slammed down and a spear-like pain, burst in his chest.
After that, his mind reeled and sank into darkness.
Stay safe!