The Christmas Carriage (3 page)

He’d knock on doors if he had to—kitchen doors, of course. He’d pester the lads in the mews…
A noise interrupted Frederick’s determined planning, a boot scraping against floorboards.

“You still here, MacIntyre?”

The superintendent was attired in a great coat, scarf, and gloves, ready to quit the premises.

“I came in a bit late, sir,” Frederick said, scrambling off his stool. “Mr. Bickerman asked me to look over some dead letters.” Thank heavens.

“It’s nigh midnight, lad.” The superintendent came closer, close enough to pull off a glove and scratch the cat under its furry chin. “I see you aren’t entirely orphaned in your labors and you’ve gotten a prodigious amount done.”

Frederick looked over the sorting table, surprised to see the superintendent was right. “I hadn’t noticed, sir.”

The superintendent, Mr. North, unwrapped his scarf and gestured to the pile left before Frederick. “Are these what’s left?”

“I can do them, sir, it’s just that there were a number of dead letters…”

North pulled up Tims’s stool. “I was a sorting clerk, you know, years ago. It’s not as easy as some people think. You must be quick and careful, for each letter might be some old dame’s only word from her daughter, it might have a father’s final words to his son. What we do is important.”

The words were muttered, but they struck a chord in Frederick. “My father has said the same thing. The king’s post is the envy of the other nations, he says. Would you like a sack to sit on, sir?”

North accepted the offer, and folded it with the same efficiency Tims would have used, then reached for half the stack of unsorted letters. “Bickerman’s being transferred, though I’ve yet to tell him.”

What had Westhaven said, about the season of miracles? “He’s very dedicated, and he’s been with the post for years.”

Frederick sorted three letters before realizing the last cache was not dead letters, but rather, another few dozen pieces of regular correspondence.

“Now this is not your common name,” North muttered. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, you’d better have a look.”

The queer feeling was back, radiating from Frederick’s chest to his very fingertips as he accepted a piece of folded, sealed foolscap from Mr. North. “It’s… Winklebleck, sir. Henderson… P… Winklebleck.” And there, right in Frederick’s hand, was the rest of the address.

“Winklebleck? Gracious, I’d never have puzzled that out.” North went back to flicking envelopes into piles—sorting methodology apparently hadn’t changed much over the years, while Frederick gaped and stared and gaped some more.

“You know, MacIntyre, I didn’t say Bickerman was being promoted. He’s being transferred. He has no wife or kiddies to uproot, so he’s the logical candidate.”

Frederick continued to regard the most lovely address in all the realm. “He has a mother, sir, and she depends on him, I’m sure.”

“Bickerman’s sister married well, and she dotes on the old girl. Bickerman is entirely free to enjoy a remove to Wick. I’m told it’s lovely this time of year.”

Frederick blinked, and wanted to shake his head, though North, who’d about completed the sorting, would think him daft. “Wick? In December?” Wick was North of Aberdeen by a considerable margin.

“Just so. Looks like we’re about done, if you’ll part with the Wanderback’s epistle?” He held out a hand, and Frederick passed him the letter.

“Winklebleck, sir. They’re a very nice family.” Lizzie was nice, and her sisters were, too.

“I hear my carriage. Don’t suppose you’d let me give you a ride home? You Scots are so damned hardy, you hardly notice the cold. My grandmother was a Scot, and her shortbread was beyond compare. She lived to be ninety-four, and I fully intend to do likewise.”

“A ride home sounds lovely, sir, if it’s not out of your way.”

They left the sorted mail to the guardianship of the sleeping cat, and though Frederick was exhausted in his bones, he also felt a lightness in his spirit that had been missing for months. His prospects had not improved, but he knew where his Lizzie was.

And she had written to her dearest Frederick.

“Is there a young lady whose family you will join for Christmas dinner this year, MacIntyre?”

“No, sir, not likely.”

They climbed into a snug coach, one made cozy by heated bricks set into the floor. “Then you must join Mrs. North and myself. We gather with my brother and his wife—he’s a bookseller—and any of my unmarried supervisors who have nowhere else to go. Makes us older fellows feel more convivial if you younger gents are on hand to hear our stories.”

Frederick was nearly asleep on his feet, both euphoric to have found his Lizzie, and vaguely anxious: Should he confront her, write back to her? Leave her in peace to find a man whose prospects suited her family’s expectations?

The horses moved off, their hooves muffled against the snow. “Will you join us, MacIntyre?”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

North muttered something about Wick not being far enough north, which made no sense. “I said, will you join me and a few of the other fellows for Christmas dinner? My wife loves to cook for hearty appetites, and you should get to know the others because you’ll be working with them.”

North was trying to tell him something, but the warmth of the coach, the toll from hours of sorting in the cold and dark, and the miracle and terror of having found Lizzie’s direction made Frederick’s brain slow.

“I am always grateful for a good meal, sir, but I wouldn’t want anybody to think I had pretensions above my station.”

North passed him a flask—now, where had that come from? “I certainly did.”

Frederick took a cautious nip. “Beg pardon?”

The stuff was lovely, as smooth a Highland whiskey as ever a homesick fellow from Aberdeen might have tasted.

“I got notions well above my station. Married the superintendent’s daughter, and applied for every promotion that came along, until I had this assignment, which is far beyond the expectations I was born with. My lady likes Town life, so here I shall stay. I assume you’ll take the position? The scenery can’t compare with Aberdeenshire, but your family will cheerfully come visit here, I’m sure.”

This time, the queer feeling suffused every particle of Frederick’s being. “You’re offering me Bickerman’s position?”

“I was inclined in that direction, and then Lord Westhaven professed himself so very impressed with you. Said he had to argue with you over a penny fare, and you were nigh beside yourself over being a few minutes late—when Bickerman can’t be bothered to come in of an entire Saturday. I’ve also seen that the other fellows like you, and you write to your mama weekly—which is a recommendation in itself. Yes, I’m offering you the position, and I doubt it will be the last time you distinguish yourself through hard work and probity.”

An angel chorus could not have sounded more pleasing to Frederick’s ear than old North’s imperious blather.

“I would like to accept the position, sir, truly I would, but there’s somebody I have to speak with first.”

The horses slowed, and Frederick realized he was going to have to face the chilly night once more, but when had a braw, handsome young man from Aberdeen ever taken issue with a little fresh air?

“Think it over, then, and we’ll not expect you first thing tomorrow. A fellow needs his rest if he’s considering momentous decisions.”

Frederick thanked North for the offer, for the ride home, and for sorting letters with him—each in itself no small gift—and sought his bed. Possibilities came to bed with him, and made sleep elusive. On a supervisor’s salary, he could afford a small house.

On a supervisor’s salary, he could afford to send a bit more home.

On a supervisor’s salary, he could afford a wife, though there was only one candidate for that post, and Frederick intended to track her down the very next morning.

***

“Sir, I tell you she’s not at home.”

The Wicklebleck butler had never struck Frederick as a finicky fellow, but moving to Mayfair had apparently effected a change—and not for the better.

“It’s early, Mims. Too early for social calls, I know that, but it’s urgent that I speak with Miss Winklebleck.”

Mims was old, the sort of old that can look the same—bald, dignified, trim—for twenty years at a go. He regarded Frederick out of his old eyes, then glanced around the foyer, which was festooned with greenery.

“She went out, Mr. MacIntyre. I know not where, or when she’ll be back, but she’s genuinely not at this address. She slipped out quite early, and I gather her departure was intended to be somewhat clandestine.”

Mims should not have told him that, which Frederick tried to regard as a concession, not a crumb of pity. “You will tell her I called?”

A proper gentleman would leave a card, but Frederick hadn’t wanted to spare the coin to have any printed.

“I will tell her myself. I suggest you take yourself off before Mr. Winklebleck should arise.”

Another concession, and a valid warning. “Good day, then, and Happy Christmas, Mims.”

He’d surprised Mims into smiling. “Happy Christmas, sir.”

Frederick had already paced up and down the block, examining the Winklebleck house from every angle. The façade was the same as its neighbors on either side, the walkway swept free of snow, a holly wreath on the door. He had no justification for tarrying, and he was already late for work.

The walk across town was… pretty, the fresh snow hiding a world of mud, and putting smiles on the faces of those braving the early morning air. London wasn’t Aberdeen, but neither did it lack for some charm.

Lizzie lived here, that was charm enough for any city. Or it would be if she’d have him for a husband.

If she wouldn’t, then darkest Peru might not be a distant enough posting. Frederick’s sense of wellbeing faded further as he approached his place of employment, for there stood Bickerman on the front steps, arguing with a woman in a deep purple dress.

“This is a proper place of business, I’ll have you know. I cannot indulge the fancies of a woman who seeks to accost my employees when about their labors. You will be on your way, madam, before I call the watch to remove you.”

The lady’s back was to Frederick, a straight, elegant back. “At least confirm that he still works here,” she said, her tone very severe, “or I will have words with your direct superior, sir. It’s urgent that I speak with Mr. MacIntyre.”

“Lizzie.” Frederick said her name softly, not so much to get her attention, as to enjoy the pleasure of speaking it.

“In a moment,” she said without turning. “You will also please deliver a message to Mr. MacIntyre, sir. You will tell him Elizabeth Winklebleck loves him, and wants to marry him. He hasn’t heard from me, you see, and being a man he will have gotten all manner of wrong-headed notions, though I do love him. I love him to distraction, and I miss him. You will tell him this.”

Bickerman’s scowl faltered. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it.

“It’s urgent,” Lizzie said, and Frederick heard tears in her voice. “The most urgent communication I’ve ever attempted.”

There on the front steps of a dignified a place of business, before all the passersby, Lizzie, Frederick, and even before Mr. North, who was getting out of his carriage, Bickerman smiled. “Tell him yourself, young lady.”

He pointed to Frederick, standing not three yards away from Lizzie, and grinning like a baboon.

“Frederick?” She wiped at her cheeks with her gloves, and Frederick opened his arms.

“Happy Christmas, Lizzie. I’ve been looking all over Town for you.”

She pelted into his chest with a good solid thud, rather like the good, solid thud Frederick had felt in his chest the first time he’d seen her sharing a hymnal with her sister.

“Frederick, I’ve missed you so! I’ve missed you and missed you, and I should have come here much sooner, but I’d forgotten I knew this, and it isn’t the done thing, and oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I couldn’t find you,” Frederick said, breathing through his nose just to catch the rosy scent of her. “I asked the pastor, I tramped all over Mayfair, I watched the Sunday church parade in the park each weekend. I couldn’t find you.”

“You’ve found me now, and I’m not letting you go.”

She wasn’t, either, she was bundled into his arms, there for the world to see. Over her head, Frederick saw a smiling Mr. North leading Bickerman into the building, but against the window, a horde of sorting clerks was grinning down at him, Tims included.

“You have to let me go, Lizzie.”

“Never.”

And wasn’t that just the best answer. “You have to let me go as far as my knees.”

Comprehension dawned in her eyes, their sparkle became luminous. “Only as far as your knees, Frederick, and only for a moment.”

He went down on one knee, took her gloved hand in his bare grasp, and felt his heart soaring. “Miss Lizzie Winklebleck, will you make the happiest of Christmas memories with me, and agree to be the wife of the newest postal supervisor to serve the king’s mail at the Greater Uppington sorting station?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, I shall, and you will make the happiest of Christmas memories with me as well.”

The clerks clapped and whistled, Frederick sprang to his feet, and Mr. North appeared on the office steps. “I gather there’s good news all around. Well, come in and introduce your lady to the fellows who’ll be working for you. The missus sent over a bowl of wassail so we might toast Bickerman on his way, but this makes the occasion doubly fine.”

“I haven’t spoken to the lady’s father, sir,” Frederick said.

“A detail, from the looks of things. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

North winked at Frederick, and as it turned out, the fellow was right. Lizzie’s father accepted his new son-in-law graciously, if gruffly. When the first grandchild came along the next Christmas, a wee dark-haired girl named Anna, the doting grandparents made a gift of a modest horse and carriage to the happy couple.

As Frederick drove his equipage to and from work, even when he was a dignified old fellow superintending several busy offices, he always kept a lookout for a lean, young fellow with no gloves, one who might need a kind word, or a short respite from the elements in the cozy confines of the Christmas carriage.