The Christmas Carriage

The Christmas Carriage by Grace Burrowes

“This blasted day wanted only another batch of damned snow.” Frederick Amadeus MacIntyre kept his voice down as he stomped his booted feet for warmth. One could not mutter such sentiments too loudly in a city gone stupid with holiday cheer.

“I’ve always liked a white Christmas,” said a pleasant voice from behind him. Frederick glanced over his shoulder at the next patron waiting in line at the hackney stand.

“The snow at least makes things seem clean for a few hours,” Frederick admitted. The fellow was tall and bare headed, with snowflakes catching in his dark chestnut hair. His build was lanky, and yet the elements did not seem to be affecting him adversely. “Only to become filthy again in all the coal smoke.”

“What say we share?” the fellow suggested. “The cabbies have their hands full keeping up with all the holiday shoppers and one can always use good company.”

Frederick took a closer look at the fellow. His clothing was exquisitely well made, and his green eyes held a sparkle. He’d be pleasant company. Pleasant was bearable.

“My thanks. I’m late for work or I wouldn’t be parting with the coin for a hansom.” Really should not be, but with more snow falling, crossing town on foot would take forever.

“Ah, you have gainful employment then,” Frederick’s companion remarked. “A substantial blessing, that.”

Frederick said nothing, and the line seemed to shuffle forward more quickly, now that his toes were but a frozen memory. They piled into a cab that sported a surprisingly clean interior, though the poor horse was wearing jingling bells on its collar and a sprig of ivy between the terrets.

“I’m Westhaven,” the fellow said, pulling his hand from a bright red mitten.

Frederick had no gloves; the chill of his grasp in Mr. Westhaven’s warm hand occasioned a frisson of humiliation. “Frederick MacIntyre. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“You mustn’t fret about being late for work,” Westhaven said, loosening a red scarf. “If you’re late, your superior is likely to be late as well. Besides, Christmas approaches, and the holiday spirit alone means some lenience is in order.”

“You may not have noticed that I’m Scottish.”

“A fine lineage when winter’s wrath is to be endured,” Westhaven rejoined.

This was… true. Frederick loosened his own scarf, the only gift Lizzie had managed to give him. “Not so fine a lineage when one’s superior at the Post Office is a grouchy old martinet who thinks Englishmen deserve every position the government has to offer. I’m the only Scot, and we’ve not a Paddy among us, though they’re notably hard workers.”

“That’s a beautiful scarf you’re wearing, Mr. MacIntyre. Has some angora in it, if I’m not mistaken?”

Frederick ran his hand over the aubergine and green wool, a familiar comfort and a torment. “This was a gift from a friend. She was going to make me some gloves to go with it.”

“A dear friend, I take it, to give you something intended to keep you cozy?”

The dearest. The cab lurched away from the stand, but only at a walk. Mr. Westhaven seemed the chatty sort, and as Frederick looked out on the bleak, snowy scene, he gave in to the impulse to share a sorrow with a stranger.

“My Lizzie gave it to me. Her papa did not approve of me, though, because I’m merely a clerk from Aberdeen, though many a clerk has risen to patronage and does quite well, eventually. Her papa told me to make something of myself before I presumed to offer for his darling girl—he wasn’t wrong—but the family has moved and I was not told their direction…”

They passed a church, where two children huddled in the doorway, trying to shelter from the wind, if not the cold. “It has been months since I walked her home from services the last time. I expect Lizzie has suitors aplenty by now.”

Westhaven was quiet for a bit, folding his scarf into a muff around his hands. “London is a very large city, but I suppose you might find her papa through his clubs or business endeavors?”

Somebody opened the church door, and the children were taken inside. Churches were not warm, but they were safe.

“Henderson Winklebleck is old school. He does not dirty his hands in trade, and having no club affiliations of my own, I would not know how to find him among the wealthy fellows on St. James.”

Though he’d tried. He’d tried asking the pastor, who claimed to have no specific forwarding address for the Winkleblecks beyond “Mayfair,” so he’d tried walking the streets of Mayfair by the hour on his rare days off. He’d tried drinking hard, and he’d tried praying harder.

“My missus and I had to overcome some difficulties,” Westhaven said. “I had to propose to her at least six times. My brothers put the total higher. Then too, papas are not the most sanguine people when faced with the possibility of losing their dearest treasures. You’re a good looking fellow in a dark, braw sort of way. Perhaps you’d best affix your affections elsewhere?”

“You’re suggesting I try giving up.” The coach came to a lurching halt, traffic being predictably snarled as they approached Picadilly. “I have tried to give up. Told myself a fellow ought not to have designs above his station, told myself Lizzie would be happier with a fellow from her own set. I’ve told myself she hasn’t tried to contact me, though I’m not sure how she could, and I’ve told myself…”

He trailed off, because some of the things he’d told himself were not fit for the ears of a proper gentleman of short acquaintance.

“You’ve told yourself it’s hopeless,” Westhaven concluded. “And is this approach yielding good results?”

Frederick gave a short, humorless laugh. “Of course not. I love my Lizzie, and love doesn’t give up just because one’s beloved has disappeared from the face of the earth. Love never gives up.”

The coach moved forward at a crawl. Westhaven patted Frederick’s knee, the gesture avuncular rather than condescending.

“The season of miracles is upon us, and you have the right of it: Love is dogged and dauntless. Now, my missus appropriated the town coach today, and said she would not be home until tea time at the earliest. What do you suppose she’s getting up to in this weather?”

***

“Ma’am, it’s snowing again.”

The shop girl sounded thrilled with this development, while Lizzie felt only dismay. “We don’t need more snow.” New snow reminded her of Frederick, whom she’d met on a snowy day. She’d slipped on an icy patch and fallen headlong into strong arms and the handsomest blue eyes ever to laugh a clumsy girl back to her feet.

“Snow always makes me happy,” the girl said. “I love a white Christmas.” The sentiment was remarkable, given that miserable weather could only make the girl’s existence more difficult.

“I enjoy a fresh snowfall, too,” said another patron. The lady looked up from a bolt of red velvet and sent Lizzie a smile. “My children enjoy it, the boys especially. The girls show every sign of following in their brothers’ footsteps. Does this velvet seem a cheerful color to you?”

The lady was pretty at first sight, and more than pretty on closer study. Her skin was flawless, her dark hair shiny, and her smile revealed perfect teeth. This was Quality, not merely wealthy gentry, like Lizzie’s family.

“It’s quite bright,” Lizzie said. “Reds are tricky. They can look rich, or they can appear garish, depending on light, the wearer’s complexion, and even the way the fabric is cut.” Had her own grandmother not been a mercer’s offspring, Lizzie would not have been as confident in her opinions.

The lady ran her hand over the lovely material. “As a holiday dress for me, do you think it would do? My husband’s family has an open house each year on Christmas Eve, and one wants to look one’s best.”

Lizzie studied the lady, then the fabric. She took the bolt and held it up to the other woman’s face. Outside the snow was going to make the walk home a challenge, but the red was really not quite right for the woman’s coloring.

“We had best keep looking, ma’am. You’re right to hesitate, because we can do better, I’m sure. And the lace is important, too. Lace can make all the difference.”

A conspiratorial gleam lit the lady’s eye. “I’m Anna. Shall we have a spot of chocolate while we deliberate?”

Lizzie adored chocolate. Whenever Frederick had come to call, she’d ordered chocolate, thinking it a treat for him, and a way to make him linger a few minutes longer in her company.

“Chocolate would suit wonderfully,” Lizzie said. The shop girl bobbed a curtsey, and scurried off as Anna moved to another bolt of red, not as bright as the first one. “How about this one? It’s a bit more dignified, don’t you think?”

The lady would want something dignified, for all her friendliness. Something beautiful. “I’ve always favored the purple tones, ma’am. Aubergine is lovely, or a deep, rosy violet, perhaps?”

The chocolate arrived, the snow came down, and Lizzie lost track of time in the midst of pretty fabrics, good company, and a need to ignore a lonely despair that only grew worse as Christmas grew closer.

***

“It appears we’re stuck,” Westhaven observed. “Too many holiday shoppers.”

Frederick wanted to pound on the roof, so wroth was his supervisor going to be with him.

“Why the cabbie tried to maneuver directly down The Strand is beyond me,” Frederick muttered. “And the snow isn’t helping.”

“You’re afraid you’ll lose your position over a single incidence of tardiness?” Westhaven asked.

“One can,” Frederick replied, watching as two footman collided, their packages going everywhere. The passersby stopped and started gathering up the items, restacking each fellows’ arms with presents. “Times are hard, and positions difficult to come by. Then too, my supervisor regards every Scotsman as a potential traitor. His people fought at Culloden, and for him the battle yet rages.”

Westhaven had the look of an Eton man. Polished, clean, tidy, and quietly wealthy. If his people had been at Culloden, they’d have been leading the charge.

“More Scots fought for the crown at Culloden than against it,” he remarked. “Your supervisor sounds like some of my father’s cronies. Set in their ways, mired in the past, and without the sense to see the gifts immediately before them.”

The coach stopped all forward progress again. “We can all get set in our ways,” Frederick said, “and you’re right. It is a blessing to have a job. It’s a blessing to be able to send some coin north for my family. It’s a blessing to share a cab fare I ought not to be splurging on.”

To admit blessings was not the same thing as finding joy in the day, but Westhaven smiled at him as if he understood this.

“You forgot that the straw in our conveyance is clean, and we’ve been good boys this year. Father Christmas might yet have a treat or two for us, right?”

Westhaven was clearly a wealthy man, but he’d admitted to having had difficulties wooing his lady, and his smile suggested a degree of understanding Frederick hadn’t expected to find on a simple cab ride.

“Very good boys,” Frederick said. Good, but lonely for his lady, and trying not to despair.

***

“You must allow me to take you up with me,” Anna said. “I’ve wasted half your day on my fripperies, and all because our coloring is similar. You’re very kind to spend time on a stranger this way.”

“I’ve enjoyed it,” Lizzie said, “and the dress will look spectacular on you.”

“This snow is spectacular,” Anna replied, pulling on white wool gloves. “My carriage will be right outside, and I will not hear of you making your way home on foot.”

Frederick had no carriage. He sent every spare penny home to his family, and walked everywhere. By now, he’d likely found a lady whose father didn’t pinch every farthing, a lady whose marriage portion could ease a young couple’s way in a daunting and difficult world.

“I would appreciate a ride,” Lizzie said. “I sent my maid home earlier with a set of purchases, and she likely has enough sense not to come back for me.”

“We’ll leave cab fare for her in case she doesn’t,” Anna said, linking her arm through Lizzie’s. “My home is in Mayfair, what about yours?”

They lived a mere two blocks from each other, and Mayfair was not far from Knightsbridge, but the snow, or the holidays, or something had traffic barely moving.

“If I might presume,” Anna said as they waited at yet another intersection. “You do not seem to be anticipating the holidays with much cheer, Lizzie. Is all well?”

Anna—Lizzie did not know her new friend’s last name—was a mother four times over. This had become apparent in the course of their morning, when Anna had remarked that this fabric would be lovely with her oldest daughter’s green eyes, and that corduroy was sturdy enough even for her sons’ enthusiastic play.

Anna was a mother, and she had kind eyes. “I don’t want to go home," Lizzie blurted out. "The house is buried in greenery, the servants are all smiles, the holiday callers are an endless stream, and I don’t… even…know… w-where my F-Frederick is and I m-miss him so!”

“I’ll just pop out here with you,” Westhaven said. “Stretch my legs a bit.”

They’d finally reached Frederick’s destination, the snow was still coming down, and he doubted very much that Mr. Westhaven needed to stretch his legs. Frederick dug in his pocket for a penny, but Westhaven put a hand on his arm.

“It’s taken care of. Perhaps you’d show me where you work?”

“I can pay my fare, sir. I’ll not take your charity.”

Westhaven glanced about as foot traffic surged all around them, and the cabbie took on new fares. “One ought not to be too proud, Mr. MacIntyre. You gave me company when my coun—my wife had left me to my own devices, and you gave me an idea for her Christmas present. I confess I was becoming desperate. Can you recommend a good stationer?”

Frederick was being cozened—charmed, Lizzie would have said—and he knew it. He also knew paper and stationery, as only a sorting clerk could. “Postlethwaite’s has the best selection and their prices are reasonable. They’re in Bloomsbury, off Madison. They have lap desks and inkwells and more pretty pens than you can properly inspect in a day.”

Westhaven fell in step beside Frederick. “Postlethwaite’s. Thank you. How many siblings did you say you had? I’m one of ten, myself. And who runs this installation of the king’s post? One does wonder about such things.”

Because he was of a height with Frederick, Mr. Westhaven could keep pace even in the snow, which was why when Frederick arrived nearly panting at his place of work, Westhaven was still with him, blethering on about his dear old papa being the perennial Lord of Misrule, and his doting mama hanging mistletoe from every cross beam of the family home.

And this made Frederick smile, because his own parents behaved in exactly the same fashion, each and every Christmas.