The Christmas Carriage Read Free Page A

Lizzie was always going to have the same father.
    Frederick reached for the bag.
    Twenty minutes later he’d confirmed Tims’s dire prediction involving dead letters as a cheery, “Happy Christmas, Mr. MacIntyre!” rang out across the sorting room floor. Westhaven stood side by side with the superintendent, who was apparently walking his impromptu guest to the door.
    “Happy Christmas, Westhaven!”
    Westhaven offered Frederick a parting wave. “Give your Lizzie a kiss for me beneath the mistletoe!”
    “Will do, sir! And the same to your lady.”
    Tims watched this exchange in puzzlement. “So who is he? He’s dressed a damn sight better than any postal clerk will ever be.”
    “Mr. Westhaven’s lady appropriated his carriage, so he was forced to take a cab. We shared the ride over from Knightsbridge.”
    Tims was quiet for a moment, but like any good clerk, he could sort and gossip at the same time. “You still looking for your lady, Fred?”
    Frederick had taken rooms in Knightsbridge because he was still looking for his lady. “She liked to shop there. Said the quality was as good as Mayfair, but the prices weren’t as outrageous, though for all I know, her family has moved to Bath.”
    They spoke of the weather, of Tims’s sweetheart, Christobel, who was meeting him for a rum bun at supper. The pile of letters on Tims’s side of the table eventually became a few score, then a few dozen.
    As the oldest clerks shuffled out in the darkening evening, Bickerman came strutting by. “Haven’t made much progress with your sorting, have you, MacIntyre?”
    “Some,” Frederick said. “What a letter to Berwyck was doing in a bundle from Bristol is anybody’s guess.”
    Bickerman glanced pointedly at the eight day clock that stood like a warden in the prison yard in one corner. “Don’t waste coal tonight. I’ll expect that bag to be sorted when I arrive in the morning.”
    The sorting room was chilly at best. Frederick wiggled his toes in his boots. “I thought I’d attend services tonight.”
    Across the table, Tims took eternities to fasten six buttons.
    “That is between you and the Almighty, but don’t think piety will excuse a lack of punctuality if those letters aren’t on their way come morning.”
    He stomped off, but not fast enough.
    “Happy Christmas, Mr. Bickerman!” Tims bellowed. He winked at Frederick, who couldn’t help but smile.
    “Yes, Mr. Bickerman, Happy Christmas, and to Mrs. Bickerman too.”
    Because, as every clerk in the installation knew, Bickerman lived with his mother, there being no other lady in London who would have him for her very own.
    ***
    “You’re up late, my dear.”
    Lizzie’s mother stood framed in the library door. By firelight, she was a pretty woman still, though strong sunlight would reveal fine lines around her eyes and mouth.
    “I spent too much time in the shops today,” Lizzie said, appending a signature to her letter—her holiday note. “I’m behind in my correspondence as a result.”
    “The holidays are frightfully busy,” her mother said, advancing into the room. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the invitations to next week’s dinner.”
    Lizzie opened the top drawer in search of sand for her epistle but found none. “We’re having another dinner?”
    Mama took the seat across from the desk, the same seat Lizzie had taken on the occasion of various lectures, scolds, or announcements from her father. Now she wanted to lecture her mother regarding all these invitations sent out to single, young men—even single, not-so-young men, provided the family had a title.
    “Lizzie, is there no young fellow whom you could see yourself taking an interest in? Many a titled lordling will overlook a girl’s common antecedents if her settlements are generous enough, and you are pretty.”
    Mama offered the last observation with a brisk inspection of Lizzie’s features, as if making sure she were still pretty.
    “Where does Papa keep the