A Magical Christmas Present Page 4

  Downstairs, as she tiptoed about tidying up and snuffing out lamps, Annie Simmons found herself feeling consumed with thoughts of Jason Burke. She felt strangely drawn to the handsome, mysterious American who had appeared on their stoop tonight.

  What an enigma he was—showing up here, so strangely yet elegantly attired, and yet arriving without appropriate funds or even luggage! Even his explanation about being sent by the newspaper had seemed odd as well as dubious.

  Yet Annie couldn’t deny that she found the American both interesting and intriguing. She considered his arresting face—the deep-set brown eyes, beautifully chiseled nose and firm mouth, the cleft in his strong chin. His physique was tall and trim, his hair thick and black as midnight.

  There was a haunted, passionate quality about him that drew her most of all. Heretofore, the only man who had been important to her romantically was Stephen—and Jason Burke was all darkness, all intensity, to Stephen’s lightness and charm.

  She knew she had agreed to marry Stephen mostly to please her father. Oscar Simmons was getting along in years, and his heart was not as strong as it once had been. Annie knew her father wanted most of all to see his daughter happily settled with the successful haberdasher. She and Stephen had been friends for years, and she had found the prospect of marrying him to be pleasant enough.

  Yet honesty compelled her to admit that, ever since she had set eyes on their dark, mysterious stranger who had arrived from America tonight, ever since he had pressed his warm, masterful lips to her flesh, she was having second thoughts about becoming Stephen Prescott’s wife.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Did you sleep well, Mr. Burke?” Oscar Simmons asked.

  Early the next morning, Jason, dressed in the quaint brown suit he had selected last night, sat in the dining room, eating breakfast with Annie Simmons and her father. Also present were the two spinsters, Miss Media and Miss Mary Craddock. The repast laid out on the lace-covered mahogany table was sumptuous—hot chocolate and coffee, scones and rolls, cranberry bread and cheese. A fire in the grate warmed the room, and the enticing aromas of the freshly baked goods filled the air. More than once during the meal, Jason had looked up in amazement as the pink-cheeked cook, Mrs. Chandler—the very servant Annie’s ghost had told him about in the present!—lumbered in wearing her uniform, apron, and mobcap, and bearing a tray laden with more coffee, marmalade, or toast. With every moment that passed, it sank in upon Jason more that he was actually living in 19th century London—for whatever reason.

  Now Jason glanced, smiling, from Annie, who sat across from him, to her father, who sat flanking him at the head of the table. “I slept splendidly, thank you, sir,” he replied. “It was kind of you and your daughter to take me in on such short notice.”

  “And what are your plans now that you are settled?” Oscar asked. “Will you be pursuing your duties for your employer?”

  When Jason, feeling at a loss, did not immediately reply, Annie filled the gap. “Father, I thought I might take Mr. Burke round to meet your friend Mr. Spencer, the newspaperman. You see, it seems that Mr. Burke is in need of a post during his stay in London.”

  Oscar Simmons scowled sharply at Jason. “I thought you said you were already employed by the American newspaper.”

  Jason coughed. “Our arrangement is an informal one.”

  “So it appears,” Simmons murmured, an undercurrent of disapproval in his tone. He nodded toward his daughter. “Perhaps it would be best if I take Mr. Burke by to meet my friend Harley.”

  “But, Father,” Annie protested, “you know the surgeon has cautioned you not to over-do in this weather. Besides, I must be out today, anyway. I had planned to go by Covent Garden to select the nuts and fruits for my Christmas baking.” She smiled shyly at Jason. “I thought I might show Mr. Burke a bit of the town.”

  While Jason returned Annie’s smile, Simmons slanted an admonishing glance toward his daughter. “My dear, may I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, Father.”

  Simmons nodded to the others. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  Jason stood as Annie got to her feet. He watched the father and daughter leave the room together, then sat back down, nodding to the two spinsters—both of whom had been observing the exchange with expressions of fascination.

  “Will you be staying in London long, Mr. Burke?” Media asked.

  Jason mused that the old lady doubtless could not begin to understand the irony of her question. “I really have no idea.”

  Across the hallway in the drawing room, Annie and her father were talking in low, intent voices.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Oscar demanded of Annie.

  She lifted her chin. “I really have no idea what you mean, Father.”

  He sighed in exasperation. “My dear, you are a promised woman. It is highly improper for you to be gadding about town with this stranger—a bachelor about whom we know nothing.”

  “But Mr. Burke is a newcomer to our country,” Annie argued. “It is only common courtesy that we should help him get acclimated.”

  “You are letting your own benevolent nature rob you of all good sense!” Oscar declared. “It would be one thing if Stephen were accompanying you—”

  “Stephen is quite busy at his shop, especially as it is the Christmas season,” Annie pointed out. “Furthermore, are you saying that I am not trustworthy, Father?”

  “Certainly not!” he said, flinging his hands wide. “I am simply trying to point out your error in judgment. You have always been far too generous for your own good, my dear. To become a mentor to this…newcomer—”

  “Father, Mr. Burke is destitute,” Annie cut in. “He arrived here without a farthing. He needs a post and a place to stay.”

  “But there are charitable institutions to see to his kind.”

  “Now you are sounding as dreadful as Mr. Dickens’s Scrooge,” Annie scolded. “And I must say that it is quite unlike you to be so stingy. Charity begins at home, Father. It is Christmastime—and I am going to help this man get on his feet.”

  “Very well,” Oscar grumbled, realizing that he was defeated. “You may go out with this man. Just don’t make a habit of it.” He smiled gently at his only child. “You, I trust. But as for this American upstart—that’s another matter altogether.”

  “Your father doesn’t like me much, does he?” Jason asked.

  Thirty minutes later, Jason and Annie were seated across from each other inside the family coach. They were headed out of Belgravia and toward Piccadilly. The day was quite chill, and Jason wore his wool overcoat over his suit. He noted that Annie looked simply adorable in her fur-trimmed pelisse over a carriage dress, and a feathered silk bonnet tied with a satin bow.

  She smiled at him. “I’m all Father has. You see, Mother died when I was born—”

  “I’m so sorry. Then you are an only child?”

  “Yes. I suppose that is why Father is so protective of me. He won’t be completely happy until I’m wed to Stephen.”

  “And what of you, Annie?” Jason asked, gazing into her eyes. “Will you be happy when you are wed to Stephen?”

  She was pensively quiet for a long moment, avoiding his eye. At last, she said carefully, “Mr. Burke, I am glad to help you. But you must realize, as my father has just reminded me, that I am a promised woman.”

  Jason could not help himself. He reached out to touch her gloved hand—and again, her honey-gold gaze flicked up to his. “Should you need reminding, Annie?”

  She did not reply, but Jason noted to his satisfaction a guilty blush staining her cheeks as she pulled away and turned to stare out the window. Jason also took in the passing sights. They were moving through Hyde Park Corner, with its view of the verdant park and the Corinthian columns of Apsley House. Jason stared at the Wellington Arch, complete with a statue of Wellington that had been absent in his own time. He was amazed. He watched a regiment of Royal Horse Guards trot past, on their way to exercises in the park.
That particular London tradition had not changed, he mused.

  As the coachman turned the conveyance onto Piccadilly, Jason marveled at the throng of coaches and omnibuses that had supplanted the usual cars and double-decker buses. In place of the usual shops and tourist bureaus, a polyglot of Italianate, Georgian, and Regency structures delighted his eyes. He recognized the familiar lines of Burlington House and the Adamesque façade of St. James Hall.

  After a moment, Jason turned to see Annie regarding him with an expression of amusement. “What is so funny, Miss Simmons?”

  “Your expression,” she admitted. “I’ve never seen anyone so enthralled with the sights and sounds of London. Clearly, this is your first visit.”

  “In a manner of speaking, it certainly is,” Jason concurred.

  While she appeared bemused by his cryptic reply, she did not comment directly. “Tell me of your background, Mr. Burke,” she suggested.

  “Such as?”

  “Your family.”

  He sighed, deciding the truth might best suffice. “They live in the American Midwest, on a farm in Missouri.”

  “Have you sisters and brothers?”

  “Two sisters.”

  “And do you see your family often?”

  “No,” he replied almost curtly.

  She at once picked up on the tension. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to broach a painful subject.”

  He flashed her a contrite smile. “I am the one who must apologize for almost biting your head off. It’s just that my family and I, we’ve never thought much alike. My father wanted me to remain in Missouri and help him run the farm.”

  “While you wanted to seek your fortunes in the big city as a newspaperman?”

  He grinned. “You are very perceptive.”

  “I think that it is often difficult simply to place oneself in a mold created by a parent. I do admire your courage in pursuing your own destiny, Mr. Burke.”

  “Perhaps you could use a little of that courage yourself, Miss Simmons?” Jason could not help but suggest wryly.

  Again, she appeared reluctant to comment, and a new, awkward silence ensued. Glancing out the window, Jason noted that they had headed south, in the general direction of the Thames. They were now passing through Trafalgar Square with its dramatic statue of Nelson, the magnificence of the National Gallery serving as a backdrop, and the breathtaking spire of St. Martin-in-the-Fields just beyond.

  Soon, they clattered along the stately Strand, with its three- and four-story Palladian and Tudor buildings, its lovely view of St. Mary-le-Strand to the east, and the panorama of the gleaming, vessel-jammed Thames running parallel to them to the south. The coachman pulled the conveyance to a halt in front of a storefront whose window was emblazoned with “The Bloomsbury Times.”

  Annie turned to Jason. “This is Mr. Spencer’s newspaper.”

  As the coachman opened the door, Jason hopped out and escorted Annie out of the coach and into the office. They were greeted by a busy cacophony. Jason glanced in amazement at the old Hoe rotary press, which was whirring away, attended by a harried pressman. Various clerks were scribbling at their desks or scurrying about with papers.

  Annie led Jason directly to the back office. “Mr. Spencer,” she called out from the doorway.

  An elderly, bespectacled gentleman with a balding head and a pleasant, round face looked up at them from his desk. “Why, Annie Simmons! Come right in here!”

  Tugging Jason along by his sleeve, Annie stepped inside. Smiling brightly, she said, “Mr. Spencer, I’d like you to meet a guest from our hotel. Mr. Jason Burke is a journalist visiting here from America.”

  Mr. Spencer grinned in obvious approval and stepped forward, extending his hand. “How do you do, young man?”

  “Fine, thank you. And I’m most pleased to meet you, sir,” Jason replied, shaking Spencer’s hand.

  “What newspaper do you write for?” Spencer asked.

  “I’m a stringer for the Manhattan Chronicle.”

  Spencer scratched his jaw. “The Manhattan Chronicle? Strange, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s one of the newer—and smaller—newspapers in New York City.”

  Spencer nodded, then glanced from Jason to Annie. “So what may I do for you two today?”

  Annie smiled. “Mr. Spencer, Jason needs a post while he is here in England, and I was wondering—”

  “If I can use an extra newsman?” Spencer finished, winking at Annie.

  “Yes.”

  Spencer chuckled, then turned to Jason. “How long are you planning to be in our country, young man?”

  “I’m not sure—but probably at least through Christmas.”

  He scowled. “So you are really only looking for a temporary post here?”

  Jason glanced at Annie. “It could work into something permanent.”

  “What kind of writing are you accustomed to doing?”

  “All kinds,” Jason replied. “Both current events, and lifestyle pieces.”

  “Lifestyle pieces?” Spencer repeated in confusion.

  Realizing his foible in tossing out a decidedly 20th century buzzword, Jason quickly explained, “You know, articles on the way people live in various locales.”

  “Ah, yes,” Spencer murmured.

  “Jason is hoping to sell a series on English Christmas traditions to the New York newspaper.”

  “Hmmmmm.” Spencer stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “You know, Charles Dickens has had such success with his Household Words magazine. I might also be interested in the type of pieces you are planning to do, Mr. Burke—that is, unless you are already committed on the series to the Manhattan Chronicle?”

  “No, we have no formal commitment.”

  “But I think I would want a more personal slant,” Spencer went on. “Say, what it feels like for an American to celebrate Christmas in England for the first time.”

  “I’d be delighted to give it a try, sir,” Jason said sincerely.

  “Then you are hiring Jason?” Annie cried with delight.

  Spencer again winked at Annie, then turned back to Jason. “Who could resist this Christmas angel? Tell you what, young man. Come back by tomorrow, and we shall discuss this matter further.”

  “Thank you for helping me,” Jason said.

  “You are most welcome,” Annie replied.

  A few moments later, Annie and Jason stood in the vast main arcade of Covent Garden, amid stately pillars and high archways lit by gaslights. They had paused at a fruit stand, where Annie was selecting bright red apples from a cart piled high with the gleaming fruit.

  Jason was amazed by the sights and sounds of the market. The huge building teemed with noisy humanity, from the best-dressed gentleman shopping to the most raggedy urchin begging for coins. Shoppers haggled with fruit peddlers and flower girls, while merchants waved their wares and shouted to gain the attention of passersby. Around them swarmed organ grinders with their monkeys, vendors displaying the newest toys, hawkers with squawking parrots on their shoulders, pea-shuckers busily at work, and porters dashing about with baskets on their heads. Nearby, a group of children were gathered about a puppet show. The myriad booths displayed everything from fresh and candied fruits, nuts and spices, to flowers, cut holly, and even the freshly cut Christmas trees that Annie told Jason had been made popular by Queen Victoria’s husband, the German Prince Albert. Despite the chill, a riot of smells laced the air—everything from cedar and spice to smoke and garbage.

  Annie paid the vendor for her purchases. After the man wrapped the apples in brown paper and twine and handed them to Jason, they strolled on.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Annie murmured.

  “Yes?”

  She flashed him a quick smile. “Well, if you are going to successfully write a series on Yule here in London, you will need to make the rounds and see how we celebrate. My father, Stephen, and I are invited to a number of Christmas gatherings and events—and we would be happy to have you accompany us.�
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  Jason had to laugh. “You are too kind, Miss Annie Simmons,” he chided gently. “You might be willing to have me tag along for the revelry—but don’t speak for your father or Stephen.”

  That comment brought a frown to her lovely mouth. “But I cannot imagine either of them being anything but gentlemen about it, under the circumstances. After all, you are a guest who needs our assistance.”

  Before Jason could comment, Annie paused, smiling down at three ragtag street urchins who were crouched on their haunches, selling flowers. She handed each child tuppence, and the oldest boy popped up, bowing and presenting Annie with a nosegay of violets.

  “Thank you dearly, miss,” the lad cried in a heavy Cockney accent, a broad smile splitting his thin, smudged face.

  Annie touched the boy’s filthy hand. “Please, you must keep the flowers.”

  “Oh, no, miss,” he protested. “They is already paid for, good and proper. You must take them.”

  “Very well, then. God bless you.”

  “And you, miss.”

  As Annie and Jason started on, she glanced over her shoulder at the tattered orphans. “It breaks my heart to see the young ones so,” she murmured to Jason. “Of course, those stuck at the workhouses have an even worse lot in life. I’m hoping that the reform movement that is sweeping Parliament will help them all.”

  Jason stared at her for a long moment. “You know, you truly are a remarkable woman.”

  “Oh, I do not think so,” she quickly denied.

  “But you are. You think of others constantly, and never of yourself.”

  “You are exaggerating, I’m sure.”

  Jason lifted an eyebrow. “I am exaggerating? Let’s see—giving money to orphans, inviting me along on your Yule activities.” Gazing at her intently, he added meaningfully, “And marrying Stephen to please your father.”

  She glanced at him quickly. “Is that what you think, Mr. Burke?”

  “You all but admitted it earlier.”

  She fingered the nosegay of flowers. “Well, I must confess that I’ve never tried to place my own needs first. That seems an exceedingly selfish way to live.”