Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

Jane dithered for another second, before she bent to kiss Maggie’s cheek. “Happy Christmas, then. Though I can’t be easy about leaving you.”

“I’ll write.”

Jane looked worried again. “If the mail makes it through the snow.”

“Happy Christmas, Jane,” Maggie said quickly, before Jane could yet again change her mind about going. “I’ll see you in January.”

The wagoner tossed the bag on board. Maggie hid a smile as he struggled to get the plump and not terribly spry Jane up onto the wooden bench.

“Happy Christmas, Maggie,” Jane called, as the driver urged his horse forward.

“And happy New Year, dear Jane,” Maggie called back. She stood on the doorstep until the wagon rolled out of sight.

The heavy silence settled around her. Silence and solitude. Despite her brave words to Jane, she hated being alone at this time of year, when memories of her happy life with her parents haunted her.

Once Christmas had been a joyous celebration of hope. Once she’d had a family. Once she’d had people who loved her. But no more.

With a sigh, she closed the door with a thud that she tried not to find ominous. She squared her shoulders and told herself to stop being so poor spirited. Things could definitely be worse.

Her father had been an impecunious clergyman, but the family had led a good life, if not a particularly luxurious one. Maggie hadn’t known hardship until after he’d drowned, when she and her mother had to leave the Kentish vicarage that was the only home she’d ever known. Luckily her mother’s cousin Thomas Black had offered the widowed Mrs. Carr a position as housekeeper at his Yorkshire estate. He’d given Maggie a home as well.

At the time, she’d been thinking of seeking a post as a governess or companion, but after the tragedy of losing her father, the chance to stay with her mother was too appealing. Following her mother’s death five years ago, she’d stayed on as housekeeper, although at twenty, she was really too young to take on the role. She’d been too heartsick with grief to think of setting up an independent life elsewhere. At least Thorncroft held memories of her mother.

Since then, she’d made a home of sorts here. She liked Jane and the taciturn Mr. Welby. And as housekeeper, she had more independence than any governess could aspire to.

But those few compensations offered frail cheer against spending the next weeks all alone, while the rest of the world celebrated Christmas.

In the years she’d been on her own, Maggie had done her best to stay brave and dutiful and faithful, as her beloved father had raised her to be. But there were times, like now, with the quiet house stretching around her, empty and echoing, when she could weep with loneliness.

“No use feeling sorry for yourself, my girl,” she whispered.

She wished she hadn’t spoken aloud. The sound reminded her that she wouldn’t hear another human voice until after Twelfth Night.

Bitter experience had taught her that activity was the best answer to a case of the megrims. Bessie the cow needed milking, and she had Bob the pony to feed and his stall to muck out. There was nothing like pitching filthy straw to stop a person from brooding on what couldn’t be changed.

But as Maggie trudged downstairs to the kitchens to put on her leather apron and work boots, she couldn’t shake the grim feeling that life was passing her by. Unless some miracle took place, her youth would be gone, and she’d be old and alone, with nothing to show for the years.

***

Maggie stirred from sleep to a loud knocking downstairs. It was pitch dark, and she was on her feet and flinging a paisley shawl around her good thick flannel nightgown before she had time to think that it might be someone intending harm.

The knocking continued. She paused to light her candle from the embers of the fire, then picked up the poker. She’d have to see who it was. The snow had started soon after Jane left, and by the time Maggie dragged herself up to bed, it had become a full-blown storm. A traveler could be stranded. It was the code of the countryside that you helped strangers in need.

Still, she gripped the poker firmly as she made her way down the old oak staircase to the cavernous hall. She’d thought her room was cold, until she left it for the unheated vastness of the rest of the house. Shivering, she wished she’d waited to change into her merino gown and good stout half-boots.

She set her candle down on a carved chest. Down here, the knocking was deafening. It stopped when she pulled the heavy iron bolt back with a scrape. She turned the key and opened the door, battling to hold it against the howling wind.

“Who is it?” she asked, then gasped and faltered back when a powerful figure loomed up on the doorstep in front of her.

“Is this Thorncroft Hall?” a rough male voice barked.

The unknown man raised his lantern. His snow-covered hat was set low and shadowed his features. As fear tightened her stomach, Maggie began to wish she’d stayed in bed and ignored the knocking. Whoever the intruder was, he looked like a complete villain.

“Yes, it is.” Although she raised the poker in silent warning.

It proved no deterrent. As he barged inside in a flurry of blown snow, he shot her weapon a contemptuous glance. “Just what do you intend to do with that, madam?”

“It’s… Oh, blast.” Her candle wasn’t proof against the wind and went out. His lantern now provided the only light. “Don’t imagine I’m defenseless.”