Phoebe Carter-Holmes Fortescue hovered in front of the fireplace in the hotel library and wrung her hands in despair. “I can’t imagine what could have happened to him,” she declared. “I specifically told him to be here at precisely two o’clock.”
Cecily Sinclair Baxter glanced at the ornate clock perched on the mantelpiece. “I’m sure Mr. Porter will be here soon,” she murmured, being sure of no such thing. “After all, he knows the children are waiting for him to appear. What good is a Christmas party without a Father Christmas?”
A loud screech erupted from the corner of the room where a group of children played in front of the glistening Christmas tree. Frowning, Phoebe lifted her hands to straighten her hat. “I really can’t have all this upset right now. What with the fuss and bother over the Christmas season, and all this talk about imminent war in France, it’s so terribly disturbing. I have a nasty feeling that 1914 is going to be a dismal year.”
“Let us sincerely hope not. I’d hate to see England drawn into a war, but if it is, we should at least be safe in our little corner of the southeast coast.” Cecily glanced across the room as more shrieks bounced off the walls. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid the children are getting restless.”
“I do wish that man would get here. All this worrying is taxing my mind. Why do these events always have to be so complicated?”
From across the room a woman’s voice rose above the clatter. “Simply because the woman in charge makes them so.”
“Really, Madeline!” Phoebe’s plaintive voice rose in a whine above the boisterous chatter of the children. “Must you find fault with everything I attempt? Surely a little tolerance isn’t too much to ask? After all, it is the season to be jolly. Or perhaps, as usual, you find yourself above such frivolity?”
Cecily glanced with apprehension at the object of Phoebe’s disapproval. Madeline Pengrath stood in the midst of the clamoring children, one hand grasping the shoulder of a red-faced boy while she held a struggling girl at arm’s length.
The slim woman’s pink muslin frock swirled around her slippered feet in her attempt to keep the quarreling youngsters apart. A dark spot of color dotted each smooth cheek beneath the heavy black tresses that swung about her face.
Her voice, usually as low and melodic as a rippling brook, sounded like a growl when she scowled at Phoebe. “If your dratted Father Christmas had arrived on schedule, these children would have happy, smiling faces instead of doing their best to kill each other—ouch!”
This last appeared to be a reaction to a vicious kick in the shin from the furious boy.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Phoebe marched across the floor, lifted her gloved hand and cuffed the boy behind the ear. “There. Now behave, you ungrateful little hooligan.”
The boy yelled, while the little girl laughed, only to let out a bellow of indignation when Phoebe batted her, too.
“Phoebe!” Madeline encircled a child in each arm. “You are a fine one to bleat about tolerance. If you want the children to behave I suggest you produce the guest of honor in the next five minutes. That’s if you’d rather not have a full-scale rebellion with which to contend.”
“I certainly would produce the man if I could.” Phoebe held out her arms to Cecily in appeal. “I have no idea where he could be.”
Deciding it was time to take charge of the situation, Cecily loudly clapped her hands. “Children! Gather around the tree and soon we will hand out the presents.”
Squeals of excitement answered her, and the young revelers rushed to secure the perfect spot in front of the sparkling Christmas tree.
Madeline really had achieved miracles this year, Cecily thought as she helped settle the little ones down. The library was her favorite room in the Pennyfoot Hotel, and had recently undergone a renovation after being gutted by a fire just a year ago.
Madeline had swathed the spacious fireplace with bountiful garlands of feathery cedar and pine. The heavenly fragrance permeated the entire room. Huge red velvet ribbons edged with gold thread added a splash of color and were complemented by pinecones painted silver.
Similar garlands hung from the light oak paneling, which had replaced the dark mahogany, much to Cecily’s delight. The new walls brightened the room considerably.
She particularly liked the colored-glass baubles, ribbons, and gilded walnuts that dangled in the branches of the sturdy pine tree. The tiny white candles, however, set in their copper saucers, gave her chills.
In previous years, the candles on the tree had been lit on Christmas Eve for a ceremony of carol singing. However, last year Cecily had come close to losing her life when the candles had set the tree alight. Now, as long as she remained the manager of the Pennyfoot, future carols would be sung without the benefit of flickering candles, thank you very much.
Having accepted Madeline’s generous offer to keep the youngsters occupied with a fairy tale, Cecily retreated to the fireplace. Phoebe joined her, and immediately attempted to peer up the wide chimney. The maneuver required a good deal of bending, accompanied by painful grunting as she struggled against the confines of her corset.
“I wouldn’t get too close,” Cecily advised. “You’re likely to get soot in your eye when Father Christmas arrives.”
“I thought you had the chimney swept yesterday.”
“I did, but I never know if those chimney sweeps are as thorough as one expects.”
Phoebe straightened, and brushed an imaginary speck from her immaculate dove gray suit. The jacket, trimmed with white fur, fitted her to perfection, as did the gored skirt that skimmed her pearl-buttoned high shoes. Even in her less fortunate days Phoebe had managed to look like a fashion plate, but since she’d married Colonel Frederick Fortescue her wardrobe had become quite impressive.
“I’m sorely disappointed,” she murmured. “I was quite looking forward to seeing Father Christmas appear out of the chimney. Quite a spectacular entrance, if I do say so myself.” She sent a malevolent glance in Madeline’s direction. “Some people just don’t realize how much creative talent and fortitude is required to plan such an event as this.”
“I have to admit, I’ve been concerned that you may have been overly ambitious this time.” Cecily smiled at her friend to alleviate the sting in her words.
Even so, the wide brim of Phoebe’s hat, weighed down by an abundance of white tulle and an assortment of ribbon roses, trembled with her resentment. “And what, pray, do you mean by that remark?”
“Only that it must have been difficult to persuade someone to actually descend the chimney. He must be a slim fellow to make such a hazardous journey.”
“As a matter of fact, he is. Which is how the whole idea came about. My original applicant was a much stouter man, and would never have managed the task. When he fell ill, however, I was forced to find a hasty replacement. I was fortunate to find Mr. Porter, who was willing to oblige at very short notice. Since he was far less corpulent, the idea of using the chimney presented itself. I had to offer the man a larger stipend than I’d anticipated, but once I named a generous figure, he was more than willing to accommodate me.”
“I imagine he was,” Cecily murmured. “I have to wonder, however, how the children will receive a scrawny Father Christmas.”
“I’ve taken pains to remedy that, of course.” Phoebe gestured at the fireplace with an elegant wave of her hand. “I had one of the footmen hide a large pillow on the ledge inside the chimney, above the fireplace well, together with the sack of toys.”
Cecily glanced at Madeline who, judging from the frantic manipulation of her eyebrows, had neared the end of her story. Once more the children were growing restless, constantly glancing in the direction of the fireplace.
“We shall have to retrieve the toys,” Cecily said in a hushed tone, “and hand them out ourselves. We cannot wait any longer. The children are impatient, and soon the parents will be arriving to take their little ones home.”
Obviously put out by the setback, Phoebe clicked her tongue. “Yes, well, I never have been enthusiastic about entertaining the village children. Admirable of you to offer such generosity, of course, but one never knows what kind of people one is entertaining when inviting peasants into one’s home.”
Well used to her friend’s unfortunate comments, Cecily bit her tongue. Phoebe’s first marriage had been to an aristocrat. Sadly, her husband’s family had never accepted her, and upon his death had cast out the grieving widow and her son to fend for themselves.
Having become accustomed to the respect and comfort afforded by her marriage, Phoebe had found it particularly hard to adjust, and had formed a bitter animosity toward the lesser fortunate with whom she had been forced to associate.
Her marriage to the Colonel proved to be a mixed blessing. While providing his wife with a standard of living more in keeping with the luxurious life she had once known, Colonel Fortescue’s faculties had been severely damaged during the Boer War, leaving him somewhat demented and unpredictable.
Phoebe had accepted his limitations in return for the comfort and security he could offer her. With their marriage she had risen above her miserable existence once more, but she’d never forgotten her dismal life among the poor, and despised any reminder of it.
“I do hope you didn’t pay the fellow in advance,” Cecily said, wincing as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. “It’s safe to say he has had second thoughts about navigating the chimney.”
“Drat. No, of course I didn’t pay him. In fact, if I see him again I shall give him a very large piece of my mind. How dare he disappoint the children!”
Cecily hid a smile. If anyone was disappointed it was most certainly Phoebe, who hated to have one of her grand gestures demolished. The sad truth was that the vast majority of her plans ended in disaster. Phoebe, however, never lost her conviction that the very next idea was her most brilliant and would undoubtedly be applauded as an unmitigated success.
Cecily still waited for that particular miracle to occur. “I shall ring for Samuel,” she said, and hurried over to the bell pull rope hanging by the door.
Within a few minutes, during which the children’s voices had risen again to an ear-splitting crescendo, Samuel entered the library. His pleasant face contorted with pain as shrill shrieks erupted from around the tree.
“You rang, m’m?” The young man sent an agonized glance toward the squabbling children. “Want me to get them out of here?”
Cecily hurried to set him straight. “No, Samuel. I want you to retrieve a large sack of toys that is hidden on the ledge in the fireplace.”
Samuel’s eyebrows twitched—the only sign of his surprise. Having been with the Pennyfoot staff since he was a young boy, with the exception of a year or two spent in London, Samuel was accustomed to encountering all sorts of odd situations. Over the years he’d worked as a footman and a stable manager, and was now in charge of not only the horses and carriages, but also the motor cars, which had become more prevalent each year.
Samuel could also be relied upon to take on any task, no matter how peculiar, without question or hesitation. He had come in very useful indeed during Cecily’s numerous skirmishes with various despicable villains who seemed bent on disrupting her duties at the renowned seaside hotel.
“In the chimney, m’m?” Samuel inquired, darting a look at Phoebe.
“Of course in the chimney,” Phoebe said sharply. “Where else would Father Christmas leave the toys?”
In her irritation she had forgotten to keep her voice low. Upon hearing her words, the children rushed for the fireplace, tumbling over each other in their excitement.
Phoebe uttered a startled shriek and fled to the window, where she stood with a hand pressed to her heart. Madeline grabbed at the nearest child, managing to snatch a handful of hair to halt the little girl’s progress. The child immediately screamed and burst into tears, and Madeline hugged the sobbing girl to console her.
Spreading his arms wide, Samuel headed off the main pack and yelled above the racket. “No one gets toys unless they’re sitting on the floor!”
Every child promptly dropped to the carpet, and silence settled over the room.
Realizing she’d been holding her breath, Cecily puffed out her cheeks in a sigh. “Thank you, Samuel.” Turning to the eager faces of the children, she added, “Christmas Eve is just a few days away, and Father Christmas is extremely busy getting his sleigh ready. I’m afraid he won’t have the time to visit us today.”
A chorus of dismay rose from the small group. Before things could get out of hand again, Cecily raised her voice. “His elves, however, have dropped off some toys for you all, and if you are really quiet, perhaps we can ask Samuel to get them out of the chimney for us.”
The groans turned to cheers and loud applause. Samuel nodded, and with a wary expression, stepped over to the fireplace. Reaching Cecily, he whispered, “You’re sure them elves left toys in there, m’m?”
Cecily smiled. “Quite sure, Samuel.” Even so, once more she held her breath as the young manager stepped into the fireplace and reached up inside the chimney. Unlike Samuel, Phoebe was not always reliable.
To Cecily’s relief, a large sack came swinging down in Samuel’s hand, and loud shrieks of joy greeted the sight of toys sticking out of the top.
Madeline stepped in to help Samuel hand out the gifts while Phoebe sank onto the gold brocade Queen Anne chair, one hand at her brow. “Thank goodness that’s over,” she muttered. “All this confusion is most tiring.” She peered hopefully up at Cecily from beneath the brim of her hat. “I really shall need something to stimulate my heart before I can return home to dear Frederick.”
“I’ll have Samuel bring you a glass of sherry,” Cecily promised, “just as soon as he’s finished handing out presents to the children.”
A few minutes later, with peace restored and the small guests happily occupied with the new treasures, Cecily gave Samuel permission to leave.
He surprised her by asking that she accompany him to the door. Anxiously she followed him, hoping his request had nothing to do with bad news. The past year had been remarkably uneventful for a change.
If she were hard pressed, Cecily would be forced to admit she missed the excitement, but the fact remained that the absence of dastardly deeds in the hotel boded well for the Pennyfoot’s reputation. She had spent far too many years worrying that the local constabulary would close down the establishment.
Her apprehension seemed well founded when Samuel turned an anxious face toward her. “I don’t want to concern you, m’m, but Mr. Baxter wasn’t on his train when I met it tonight.”
A stab of anxiety caught her under the ribs. “He wasn’t? I dare say something in the office kept him long enough to miss the train.” She glanced at the clock. “The next one should be due in about two hours. I’m sure he’ll be on that one.”
“Yes, m’m.” Samuel touched his forehead. “I’ll be there to pick him up.”
“Thank you, Samuel.” Cecily closed the door behind him, her face creased in a frown. It wasn’t like her husband to be late without ringing her. Moreover, she’d rung his office earlier to ask him to run an errand for her, and his assistant had informed her that Baxter was already on his way home.
She knew better than to have a fit just because he’d missed the train. Even so, she was aware that the niggling worry would not go away until he’d safely arrived.
Below stairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Chubb winced as a saucepan lid crashed to the red tile floor. Michel was in one of his moods again. The volatile chef rarely went a day without at least one outburst of temper, and sure enough, this day had been no exception.
Mrs. Chubb toyed with the idea of offering him a drop of his special brandy. After all, it was supposed to be for medicinal purposes, and when Michel flew into one of his tantrums, there was always the danger he’d do some harm to himself with one of his kitchen knives.
Only one problem: once Michel got a taste of the fiery spirits, he didn’t know when to stop. An inebriated chef was worse than a bad-tempered one, especially in Michel’s case. The pots and pans would be joyfully crashing all over the place, and the chef’s fake French accent would disappear under a barrage of foul jokes.
Mrs. Chubb shuddered. She’d rather deal with the sober Michel, temper and all.
In an effort to mollify the irritable man, she tried a bit of conversation. “It’ll be hard for Gertie this year, having to face Christmas without her husband. Such a sad thing, losing her Ross last winter like that. I thought she’d never get over it.”
“Gertie is young,” Michel said, stooping to pick up the lid he’d just dropped. His tall white hat fell sideways and he shoved it back with an impatient hand. “She will find ze new man soon, non?”
Mrs. Chubb shook her head. “I don’t know. Not many men are willing to take on a woman with little ones. Her twins are a handful, that’s for sure.”
“Ah, but Gertie, she is a good woman. A wise man will know that and…how you say…snatch her up!” Michel snapped his fingers and sent a knife spinning across the table. Muttering curses under his breath, he made a grab for it, missed, then let out a string of oaths as it clattered to the floor.
Mrs. Chubb was still reeling from the shock of Michel describing Gertie as a good woman. The chef and her chief housemaid had been at loggerheads with each other ever since Gertie had arrived at the Pennyfoot years ago.
At fourteen Gertie had been brash, defiant, and at times unmanageable. Every other word that came out of her mouth was a curse, and as housekeeper it had been Mrs. Chubb’s job to train the unruly child in the manners befitting a member of her staff. She had been tempted, many times, to give up on Gertie.
Two marriages, rambunctious twins, and the recent loss of her husband had mellowed the tempestuous housemaid a little, but the defiance still glimmered beneath the surface, just waiting to be released once more.
In spite of her dedication to protocol, Mrs. Chubb rather looked forward to that day. Gertie wasn’t the Gertie she knew without a little fire under her cap.
“Well,” she said, “I hope you’re right. Gertie needs a man to take care of her and those little ones.”
“Per’aps one of ze new waiters Mrs. Baxter hired?” Michel slapped a frying pan on the stove. “One of them might be willing to put a smile on Gertie’s face, oui?”
“Reggie and Lawrence?” Mrs. Chubb shook her head. “No, they’re much too flighty to take care of a wife and family. They spend half their time chasing the housemaids up and down the stairs. Now that nice Mr. Jeremy Westhaven in room twelve. He’d be a good catch, all right. Comes from a good family, that he does. I can tell just by looking at him. Nice looking chap he is, too.”
Michel let out a caustic bellow of disbelief. “How can you think such a man would be interested in a common housemaid? Mon Dieu! Are you crazy?”
Mrs. Chubb dug her fists into her hips and glared at the chef. “I seem to remember young Lord Withersgill taking an interest in our Daisy.”
Michel snorted and shook the frying pan. The delicious aroma of fried onions made Mrs. Chubb’s stomach rumble with hunger. “Gertie is not Daisy,” he muttered.
“Daisy was a housemaid, just like Gertie, before she became nanny to Gertie’s twins. She—” Mrs. Chubb turned her head as a young woman burst through the door of the kitchen.
Gertie’s cap hung over one ear, and hanks of her dark hair fell across her face. “I knew it!” she declared, as she slumped down on the nearest kitchen chair. “I knew it was too bleeding good to be true.”
Mrs. Chubb cringed. Life might have mellowed Gertie, but it had failed to curb her wayward tongue. “What’s too good to be true?”
“We’d gone almost a year without anything really bad happening at the Pennyfoot.” Gertie swept back the loose strands of her hair and straightened her cap. “After my Ross died it got real quiet around here and I thought we was over all the bad things happening.”
“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Chubb folded her arms. “And sit up straight, for goodness sake, Gertie. Try to at least look like a lady.”
Gertie scowled. “What for? I’m a bloody housemaid, not a blinking lah-de-da lady’s companion.”
Michel started to laugh, then turned it into a hail of cursing.
Both Mrs. Chubb and Gertie stared at him.
“What’s up with him?” Gertie said, as Michel started shoving pots around, sending lids crashing once more to the floor.
“My knife!” Michel howled. “Someone has stolen my best knife. It has disappeared!”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Chubb puffed out her breath, annoyed with both him and her disheveled housemaid. “You’ve probably dropped it on the floor, like you’ve dropped a hundred other things this afternoon.”
Michel glared at her as if she were responsible for the missing knife. “I never use it unless I am slicing the beef. It is my special knife. Look, it is not here.”
“Crikey, Michel.” Gertie jumped to her feet. “Here you are moaning about a lost knife when that poor bugger’s lying dead out there.”
Mrs. Chubb felt as if a hand had grabbed her throat. “What did you say? What poor bugger—I mean—person? Who’s lying dead?” Her heart started pounding. “It’s not anyone we know, is it? Gertie, please tell me it’s not someone from the Pennyfoot who died?”
Gertie turned her face toward her, and Mrs. Chubb felt quite faint. She could tell from Gertie’s expression that her worst fears were about to be realized. Holding her breath, she waited for the dreaded axe to fall.