A Victorian Christmas
A
VICTORIAN
CHRISTMAS
CATHERINE PALMER
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A Victorian Christmas
“Angel in the Attic” copyright © 1997 by Catherine Palmer. All rights reserved. Previously published in A Victorian Christmas Tea under ISBN 978-0-8423-7775-1.
“Lone Star” copyright © 1998 by Catherine Palmer. All rights reserved. Previously published in A Victorian Christmas Quilt under ISBN 978-0-8423-7773-7.
“Under His Wings” copyright © 1999 by Catherine Palmer. All rights reserved. Previously published in A Victorian Christmas Cottage under ISBN 978-0-8423-1905-8.
“Behold the Lamb” copyright © 2001 by Catherine Palmer. All rights reserved. Previously published in A Victorian Christmas Keepsake under ISBN 978-0-8423-3569-0.
Cover illustration of tree copyright © by Dmitry Remesov/Shutterstockimages. All rights reserved.
Cover illustration of holly copyright © by Maljuk/Shutterstockimages. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli
“Lone Star,” “Under His Wings,” and “Behold the Lamb” edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, King James Version.
Scripture quotations in the epigraphs are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Palmer, Catherine, date.
A Victorian Christmas / Catherine Palmer.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN 978-0-8423-7773-7
1. Love stories, American. 2. Christmas stories, American. 3. Christian fiction, American. I. Title.
PS3566.A495V53 2009
813’.54—dc22
2009009855
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Printed in the United States of America
15 14 13 12 11 10 09
7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Angel in the Attic
Lone Star
Under His Wings
Behold the Lamb
About the Author
ANGEL IN THE ATTIC
PROLOGUE
December 1880
Silver City, New Mexico
“If I so much as catch a glimpse of a single hair on your scrawny hide, I’ll pull the trigger. You hear?” Fara Canaday lowered the shotgun and flipped her blonde braid over her shoulder. Her latest suitor was scurrying away across Main Street, his hat brim tugged down over his ears with both hands—as if that might protect him from a blast of pellets.
“And stay gone, you ol’ flea-bit varmint!” she hollered after him.
“Ai, Farolita, you got rid of that one.” Manuela Perón, the housekeeper at the redbrick Canaday Mansion, shook her head. “And the one before. What did you do to that poor man? Spill hot tea into his lap?”
“He tried to kiss me!”
“Is that so terrible? You have twenty-four years, señorita. Long ago, you should have been kissed, wedded, and made into a mama.”
Fara shrugged. “They’re all after Papa’s fortune, Manuela. Why should I let some greedy, no-good, moneygrubbing—”
“It’s your fortune, Farolita. Your papa has been gone almost a year now. If you wish to do well by his memory, you will marry and bear an heir. What use is a daughter to a wealthy gentleman? None. None but to marry a wise man who can manage the business and bring heirs to his line.”
“I can manage the business. I looked after Papa’s affairs all five years he was ill—and we didn’t lose a single silver dollar. In fact, the Canaday assets grew by leaps and bounds. We bought the brickworks. We cut a wider road to the silver mine. We invested in two hotels and a restaurant. Manuela, the Southern Pacific Railroad is on its way to Deming, and if I have my say, Silver City will join it with a narrow gauge branch line. In a couple of years, we’ll have telephones and electricity and—”
“Ai-yai-yai!” Manuela held up her hands in a bid for peace. “These are not the words of a lady. Why did your father send you away to that school in Boston? To learn about telephones and electricity? No. He sent you to learn elegant manners. To learn the wearing of fashionable clothes. To learn conversation and sketching and sewing!”
Manuela ignored Fara’s grimace and rushed on. “Why did your papa want you to learn these things? So you can marry well. Look at you now, Farolita. Have you been riding the horses again? If I lift your skirts, will I see those terrible buckskins from the Indios? Your hair is wild like an Apache. Your skin is brown from the sun. You never wear your bonnet! And you put on men’s boots! You pick your teeth with hay stems—and you spit!”
“If I learned one thing in Boston, it’s that housekeepers aren’t supposed to lecture their mistresses.” Fara let out a hot breath that quickly turned to steam in the chill December air. “For three months now, Manuela, I’ve been giving you lessons from the Boston lady’s book. You’re supposed to wear your black-and-white uniform—not that flowered mantilla. You’re supposed to knock softly and introduce your presence with a little cough. You’re supposed to insist that all visitors put a little calling card in the silver tray by the front door . . . and not let them come barging into the library where I’m making lists for the Christmas tea!”
“But . . . but . . . that man didn’t have a calling card.” Manuela’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know where is the silver tray. I think it went the way of the crystal goblets—with Pedro, the thieving butler. And the black uniform you brought me is so . . . tight. I have ten children . . . and . . . and . . .”
“Oh, Manuela, I’m sorry.” Fara wrapped her arms around the woman who had served her family with love so many years. “It’s just these confounded gentleman callers. They come courting and wooing, and they get me so riled up I start hollering at you.”
“Sí, Farolita, my little light. I know. I know.” Manuela hugged Fara, calling her by the pet name that evoked images of the soft yellow candles set out in bags of sand on Christmas Eve to light the way of the Christ child. “We must have peace in this house.”
“Peace and goodwill,” Fara said.
“Goodwill to all—even men.”
Fara crossed her arms and fought the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Not to men with marriage on their minds,” she said firmly. “Godspeed but not goodwill.”
Touching the housekeeper lightly on the cheek, Fara started back into the house. As she shut the door behind her, she heard Manuela whisper to a throng of imaginary suitors, “God rest ye merry, gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay.”
Fara chuckled and added, “But don’t have dreams of marriage—not to Fara Canaday!”
Phoenix, Arizona
The memory of the previous night’s choking nightmare swept over Aaron Hyatt as he strode through the lobby of the Saguaro Hotel in downtown Phoenix. He had dreamed he was going to marry Fara Canaday. Stopping stock-still on the burgundy carpet and staring up at the hideous gargoyle that had reminded him of the nightmare, he ran a hand around the inside of his collar.
Marri
age? What a despicable thought. What a gut-wrenching, spine-chilling, nauseating idea.
“Evenin’, mister.” A young bellboy peered up at Hyatt. “You look a little pale, sir. Are you all right?”
Hyatt’s attention snapped into focus. “Why am I going to New Mexico?” he demanded of the lad. “I’ve been sitting in my room most of the day pondering the question—and I still don’t have a good answer. Why would a sane man travel across mountains and deserts —give up two good months of his life—just to meet a woman?”
The bewildered boy swallowed. “Maybe . . . maybe she’s a beautiful woman?”
“She’s not. If I were a gambling man, I’d wager half my fortune she’s plain faced, oily haired, dull witted, and lazy. She’ll be all done up in silks and ribbons. She’ll giggle and mince around the parlor like a little lap dog. She’ll have nothing in her brain but bonbons and fashions. I know the type. Know them well, trust me. So why am I going?”
“Because . . . because you were told to?”
“Asked. Asked by my father on his deathbed.” Go and find Jacob Canaday, the best man I ever knew. Honest. Hardworking. Loyal. A Christian man. Go and find him. He has a daughter. If you can, marry her, Aaron. She’ll make you a good wife.
“She might make a good wife,” the boy ventured.
“Pah! You have no idea. None whatsoever. She’d nag me to death. The rich ones always do. They’ve had life too good. Too easy. She’d want everything she doesn’t have—and twice as much besides. She’d make my life a sludge pool of misery. Well, I’m not going. I’m a praying man, young fellow, and I surely believe the Lord speaks in mysterious ways. That dream must have been a sign.” He reached into his pocket for a coin. “Send word to the livery stable for me, will you? Tell them Aaron Hyatt wants to be saddled and out of town by six.”
“Hyatt? Are you Mr. Hyatt?” The boy’s eyes widened. “There’s a gentleman’s been lookin’ for you. He’s waitin’ upstairs with his pals. They’ve been drinkin’ whiskey for hours, but he says he’d wait all day and all next year if need be. Says he’s been expectin’ you to track him down these fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years? I was no bigger than you fifteen years ago— and sure as summer lightning I wasn’t tracking anybody but Sallie Ann, the girl next door with the pretty red pigtails.” Hyatt glanced up the staircase. “Who is the man?”
“It’s Mr. James Copperton, of course. He’s famous. He owns the biggest saloon in Phoenix and half the trade in loose women. Maybe he wants to do business with you.”
Hyatt scowled. “I wouldn’t do business with a man like that if my life depended on it. But I reckon I’ll have to speak to him. Run up and tell him I’m here.” He glanced at the gargoyle again. “Then hotfoot it to the livery, boy. Tell them I’m riding out tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“I’m not one to waste a single minute once I’ve made up my mind. The more miles I can put between Miss Fara Canaday and me, the happier I’ll be.” He flipped the coin to the boy. “Hop to it.”
“Yes, sir!”
The lad raced up the curving staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Hyatt pondered the gargoyle a moment longer. Spare me, Lord, his soul whispered in silent prayer. If I must take a wife, give me one with fire in her spirit, brains in her head, and the smile of an angel. Amen.
As he started up the stairs, the young bellboy flew past him. “They’re waitin’ for you, Mr. Hyatt,” he said. “I’m on my way to the livery.”
“Good lad.” Hyatt reached the landing and turned the corner to start up the second flight of steps. As he placed his hand on the banister, a strangled cry echoed down.
“It’s him! It’s him!”
Hyatt looked up—straight into the barrel of a trembling six-shooter. Ambush. Fire shot through his veins, tightened his heart, stopped his breath. The small pistol tucked under his belt seemed to burn white-hot. Could he reach it in time?
“You sure it’s him, boss?” someone shouted. “He looks awful young.”
“It’s him. It’s Hyatt!” The man holding the pistol swayed at the top of the staircase. Hyatt had never seen the drunkard in his life. “Fifteen years you’ve been after me, Hyatt! Every time I look over my shoulder there you are, haunting me like a devil. I’ll stop you this time—”
“Now just hold on a minute, mister—”
“Is your name Hyatt?”
“Yes, but—”
The pistol fired. The pop of a firecracker. Pain. Blood. The smell of acrid black smoke. Gasping for air, Hyatt flipped back his jacket, drew his pistol, aimed, and fired.
“I’m hit! I’m hit!” the man moaned.
A bullet struck the mirror on the wall beside Hyatt. Glass shattered. Screams erupted in the lobby below. Hyatt jammed the pistol under his belt and grabbed his left forearm. Searing purple pain tore through him as he turned on the landing.
“After him! After him, boys. Don’t let him get away!”
Another shot splintered the wooden balustrade. Hyatt hurtled down the steps, his pursuers’ feet pounding behind him. The livery. Get to the livery.
He raced through the lobby. A woman fainted in front of him, and he vaulted over her. He burst through the double doors. Dashed out into the chill darkness. Down an alley. Across a ditch. He could hear men running behind him. Shouting.
His head swam. The livery tilted on its side, lights swaying. The smell of the stables assaulted him, made him gag. In the doorway, the bellboy’s face looked up at him, white and wide-eyed.
“You’re bleeding, mister!” he cried. “What happened?”
What happened? What happened? Hyatt didn’t know what happened. Couldn’t think. His horse. Thank God, his horse! He wedged his foot in the stirrup. Threw one leg over the saddle. The stallion took off, hooves thundering on the hollow wood floor of the ramp. Galloped past the men. Past mercantiles. Houses. Foundries. Corrals.
Hyatt cradled his scorched and bleeding arm. He no longer heard his pursuers. He turned the horse east. Mountains. Caves. Tall pine trees. Fresh springs. Better than desert.
Yes, he would head east.
CHAPTER ONE
Holly. Ivy. Cedar wreaths. Pine swags. Hot apple cider. Cranberry trifle. Plum pudding.
Oh, yes. And mistletoe.
Fara Canaday dipped her pen into the crystal inkwell and ticked the items on her list one by one. She had planned and organized the sixth annual Christmas tea for the miners’ children as carefully as she always did. Each item on the list was in order, and in two weeks the anticipated event would go off without a hitch.
Tomorrow, a fifteen-foot pine tree would be cut, brought down from the forested ranch near Pinos Altos, and erected in the front parlor of Canaday Mansion. Already, piñon logs lay in neat stacks beside the seven fireplaces that heated the large brick home. The silver candelabras had been polished, the best china washed and dried, the white linens freshly pressed. Twelve plump turkeys hung in the smokehouse, ready to be garnished and set out on silver trays. The only thing remaining was to post the invitations. The housekeeper would see to the task.
Leaning away from her writing desk, Fara kneaded her lower back with both hands. The lady’s maid had the morning off, and Manuela had laced Fara’s corset far too tightly. Born in the mountains of Chihuahua, Mexico, Manuela possessed a flat face, bright brown eyes, and an indomitable spirit. She approached her labors like a steam locomotive on a downhill run. She polished silver-plated bowls straight through to the brass. She dusted the features right off the Canaday family portraits. And when she laced a corset, strings broke, grommets popped out, and ribs threatened to crack.
Fara sucked a tiny breath into her compressed lungs and tugged at her collar. The ridiculous lace on the dress just in from New York threatened to choke her to death. And these silly shoes! The pointed little heels poked through the carpet. That morning they had nearly thrown her down the stairs. If it weren’t for a business meeting at the brickyard, a trip to the bank, and dinner with the Wellingto
ns still to come, Fara felt she would tear off the abominable gown and shoes and fling them down the coal chute. With a sigh, she tossed her pen onto the writing desk. Black inkblots spattered across the Christmas list.
“Confound it,” she muttered. If only she could escape this sooty town and her ink-stained lists. She would pull on her buckskins, saddle her horse, and ride up into the hills.
“Letters,” Manuela announced, barging into the library and dumping a pile of mail on the writing desk. “Invitations mostly, señorita. You’ll be here all afternoon answering these.”
Fara restrained the urge to remind her housekeeper to knock. To announce herself. To use all the polite manners so painstakingly covered in the manual Fara had brought from the Boston school for young ladies.
“Did you already go to the post office, then?” she asked.
“Sí, señorita. You didn’t have anything you wanted to mail, did you?” Manuela eyed the large stack of invitations.
“Just these two hundred letters.”
“Ai-yai-yai.”
Fara let out her breath. “Manuela, please. When you’re going into town, let me know. I need a new bottle of ink, and we have to get some red ribbons—”
“Look at this packet, Farolita!” Manuela was sifting through the mail on the writing desk. “It’s from California. I wonder who it could be? Do you know anyone in California?”
Fara grabbed the thick envelope. “Manuela, I asked you not to look through my mail. It’s private, and you’re . . . you’re . . . well, you’re supposed to be the household staff. It’s not proper.”
“And who is to say what is proper?” Manuela sniffed. “I have been with your family since I was four years old. I knew your mama before she was married. I knew your papa back when he was working in the mines. I used to change your diapers, niñita. I am not household staff. I am Manuela Perón.”