“What did you say your name is?”

  Spare me from tippling servants. “Joshua Penrose. I am your employer, though I’ve been on extended travel in the New World. We haven’t met.” He’d remember that chin, which hinted of determination and an opinionated aristocrat or two somewhere higher up on the family tree. Swooping brows to go with an unapologetic nose and well defined jaw.

  Cobwebs, dust, and lackadaisical underlings would stand no chance with this lady.

  Mrs. Burdette was far from pretty, but she was attractive. She had substance and presence, and—Joshua would bet his share of the bank on this—an impressive temper.

  “Mr. Penrose—if that is your name—I know not what scheme you are trying to hatch, but my husband purchased this house two and a half years ago. He paid dearly for it, and if you think to swindle me out of my home by dark of night and in the dead of winter, you have taken leave of your senses.”

  Feeling was flooding back into Joshua’s feet, face, and hands. An infernal itching joined exhaustion, hunger, and the crushing sadness he’d not managed to heave overboard during three weeks at sea.

  “The scheme, Madam, must be yours. I have not sold this dwelling, nor have I authorized its sale. If you will produce your husband, I will happily acquaint him with the pertinent facts.”

  Joshua could see his breath in the shadowy foyer, and yet, it was his foyer. He had not stumbled into the wrong house. The portrait over the sideboard was of his grandpapa, who’d had the house built as London’s push away from the old walled City had gained momentum in the previous century.

  The carpet was a fading Axminster woven to order for his grandmama. The corridor beyond would boast seascapes, landscapes, and a few exquisite botanical sketches, while the library doubled as personal art gallery.

  And please heaven, might there be a lit fire in that library.

  “Mr. Penroses, this is my house. I will thank you to vacate it at once.” She pointed to the door, her other hand on her hip. “Now.”

  I am too tired for this. I am too angry for this. “Penrose. In case it has escaped your notice, the snow is coming down better than an inch to the hour. I had to walk half the distance from the docks because the hackneys are all taking the shelter any sensible creature should seek on a night like this. I have traveled thousands of miles, Mrs. Burdette, and I will not be turned away from my own doorstep to perish in truly dangerous weather.”

  The Joshua Penrose who’d left England all those years ago would never have addressed a woman, much less a female employee so sternly. But then, he’d thought to spend only a few months in the former colonies, before setting sail for home.

  “The Wood and Willow will remain open until the end times,” Mrs. Burdette retorted. “They are one street over. For a few pints, they’ll let you have a chair by the hearth for the night. I am a decent woman and this is a decent house, and you will not impose yourself upon it.”

  “What happened to the Owl and Ocelot?”

  She gathered her shawls more closely. “The daughter took over from her parents and changed the name. She claimed nobody knew what an ocelot was.”

  “I know what a winter storm is,” Joshua said, “and that weather will take lives this night. If you can’t be troubled to find me some comestibles, might we at least have this argument somewhere warmer?”

  Another hitching up of the tattered shawls. “I’d rather not admit you to my house. Surely you grasp the proprieties involved?”

  She was living up to the promise of her chin, drat and blast her. “I grasp that no sane creature is abroad in this weather, that mine were the only footprints in the increasingly deep snow for the length of three streets, and that anybody who has dwelled in these surrounds for more than five years will acknowledge that I have every right to be here.”

  “You’ve been away five years?”

  “Longer, in fact, but right now, all I want is warmth and something to drink. You needn’t feed me. I’ve been hungrier.” If Joshua were any wearier, he’d be asleep on his feet, a perilous state of affairs on London’s increasingly frigid and deserted streets.

  “All well and good for you, sir, but what will the rest of the neighbors think about me, hailing a strange man in off the street, showing him hospitality he has not earned, and—”

  “Mama, is he really a stranger?”

  Joshua had to drop his gaze down below the top of the sideboard. A small child had intruded on the conversation, as small children were wont to do. A female child, complete with her mother’s chin, alas for the girl, goggled at Joshua through big, blue eyes. Her hair was coppery compared to her mother’s auburn, and the girl’s tresses were arranged in two unraveling plaits.

  “I am not a stranger.” In this one house in this one city, Joshua Penrose was not a stranger.

  “If you were,” the girl said, “you might be an angel-unawares. Are you sure you’re not a stranger? Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. I’ve never seen a regular angel or an angel-unawares.”

  “Hollister Ann Burdette, where are your slippers?”

  The daft child was barefoot. Her little robe looked snug enough, and she wore a flannel nightgown beneath, but her bare little toes had to be half-frozen.

  “I’m Holly,” the girl informed Joshua. “Mama only calls me Hollister Ann when she’s zasperated with me.”

  Joshua felt a compulsion to close his eyes and leave them closed just for a moment. To have a nice little lean on the sideboard for a few days’ worth of nap. When he woke up, he’d smell fresh bread baking, and one tug of the bedroom bellpull would result in hot tea and a hot breakfast.

  Not too much to ask, but at present, a complete fantasy.

  He scooped up Hollister Ann and perched her on his hip. With his other hand, he hefted his satchel.

  “Mrs. Burdette, I am growing a bit zasperated myself. If you would please lead the way to some warmth, I will entertain every argument you or your husband care to make, provided we first put some stockings and slippers on this child’s feet.”

  Mrs. Burdette sniffed in the manner of a mama who knew she was being cozened. She collected the lit carrying candle from the sideboard and marched off down the corridor.

  Joshua followed more slowly.

  The seascapes needed a good cleaning, the runner was threadbare, and a decent landscape of Chatsworth was no longer hanging in its appointed location. A drawing of a child had taken its place, probably the same little sprite using the collar of Joshua’s great coat as a teething rattle.

  “What have you done with Chatsworth?” Joshua asked, as Mrs. Burdette lifted the latch on the study door.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “His Grace of Devonshire’s ancestral pile. Immortalized in oils. Across from the pier glass.” Which had acquired a few speckles near the bottom corners.

  “You refer to a painting?”

  “I do.” Joshua expected that Mr. Burdette was to be found in the study, and surely that good fellow could be made to see reason. Morning was soon enough to sort out whatever misunderstanding—or swindle—had resulted in Mrs. Burdette’s mistaken conclusions.

  “Sold.” She pushed open the door and admitted Joshua not to his study, but to a sort of parlor cum play room where his study should have been.

  The room was warm in comparison to the foyer, though any resemblance to Joshua’s study ended there.

  “Where is my desk?” A beautiful behemoth of carved oak, at least two hundred years old. Had drawers within drawers, at least three secret compartments, and was of a size for somebody of Joshua’s height. “I love my desk. Please tell me that hasn’t been sold as well.”

  “You love a desk?”

  “My grandfather loved that desk too. An abacus was built into a panel on the righthand side. It pulls out, and you can… yes, I love that desk.” He did not love the slurping sound the child made right near his ear. She was very solid as sprites went. Heavier by the moment, in fact.

  “A monstrosity of a desk occupies the alcove past the warming pantry.”

  “A beautiful monstrosity.” By contrast, a plain, anemic little escritoire was angled by the fire. Joshua could smash that paltry excuse for a desk with one fist and the idea gave him pleasure.

  At least there was a fire, and a decent blaze at that. “Where is Mr. Burdette?”

  He wasn’t in this all-wrong room. A stuffed horse sort-of-thing on wheels sat near the window, complete with what looked like real horsehair for the mane and tail. A card table was positioned under the other window, sporting a chess set ready for play.

  Where to put the…? Joshua draped the girl into a wingchair. She curled up immediately, her cheeks working as if her thumb were in her mouth.

  Bare feet of all the ridiculous… “About Mr. Burdette. If he’s asleep at this hour, I suggest you do not disturb him. Morning will arrive in due course, and that’s soon enough to sort out any misunderstandings. I will be happy with any guest room that boasts a fire.”

  The itching was subsiding, leaving Joshua with cold feet in damp, possibly ruined, boots.

  “Mr. Burdette enjoys the eternal slumber of the just. You might as well have a seat. I was about to put the kettle on.”

  Mrs. Burdette spared the child one look that held both affection and despair, then decamped.

  Tea was better than nothing, a warm dry sofa was a great improvement over numbing cold and frozen extremities. Joshua removed his great coat and tucked it around the dozing child, taking care to cover those impossibly vulnerable little feet.

  He sat to remove his boots and had to pause—sitting—to clear his head.

  “A bit muzzy.” He nonetheless got both boots and his wool stockings off, though that effort left him muzzier still. The carpeted floor was frigid of course, so he pulled a hassock over to the sofa, unfolded the knitted blanket hanging over the back of the second wing chair, and tried to make five feet of blanket suffice for more than six feet of chilly man.

  As a younger fellow, he might have found the situation comical. Perhaps in the morning he’d be able to smile about it.

  Not likely. He hadn’t done much smiling for the past year.

  He gave up on the hassock idea, curled up in a corner of the sofa, and got as much of himself under the blanket as he could manage. The last thought in his mind before sleep crashed over him like an avalanche was that putting Grandpapa’s desk in an alcove was an abomination against the natural order, as any sensible body ought to have known.

  Hope knew the look a person coping on no sleep, no resources, and no hope. Mr. Penrose, despite his height and rudeness, fit the description. The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises, his cheekbones were too prominent, and his hair was in need of trim. His tailoring was excellent, but everything from his great coat to his boots was looser than it should have been.

  Hope’s guest enunciated carefully, as if making thoughts audible took concentration when he yearned only for silence.

  Hope knew that yearning. Sometimes, when Holly could not stop chattering, silence loomed as the only boon worth begging for. Mr. Penrose craved quiet. Hope knew that about him instinctively, and she knew he’d been telling the truth about tromping London’s streets. A fine pair of boots had suffered a soaking in the snow, something only a desperate or heedless man would have allowed.

  “If he even is Joshua Penrose,” Hope muttered.

  The pantry mouser opened his eyes and yawned. He was a fat-headed black-and-white specimen who wore a perpetual scowl that hid a sweet nature. Holly had named him Heifer, despite knowing full well that a heifer as a female bovine. When Holly made up her mind, the celestial powers could not un-make it.

  Much like her father.

  Hope lowered the pot swing so the kettle was closer to the coals, and considered whether she could spare some cheese toast. The cat was passionately fond of cheese, so was Holly.

  “This fellow might be impersonating Mr. Penrose.” Hope had to admit that he had a Penrose sort of beak if the portrait in the foyer was any indication. The solicitors said the old fellow in the foyer had been a banker of some renown in the last century. “Joshua Penrose has waited quite a while to run his rig, if he’s an imposter.”

  People grew desperate as the holidays approached. The year’s accounts would soon have to be paid, the worst of the cold still lay ahead, and in many trades, winter wages were hard to come by.

  “A few slices won’t matter.” Holly warmed the teapot and filled it half full, then measured out exactly half a pot’s worth of tea from the nearly empty drawer. While the tea steeped, she made two bread, butter, and cheese sandwiches, and warmed them carefully on Edwin’s sandwich toaster.

  Two flat pieces of one-inch wire mesh hooked together with a toasting fork for the handle. Edwin had been certain he’d invented every kitchen maid’s fondest dream, but nobody had been willing to pay for the idea. Why not just use the toasting fork for its intended purpose?

  The pantry boasted some shortbread, curtesy of Mrs. Ingleby, but Hope saved that for Holly. With Christmas around the corner, Holly was trying so hard to be good, and mostly succeeding.

  Hope assembled the tea tray—her last two matching cups, as it happened. Half a cream pitcher of milk—no cream had graced the kitchen since Edwin’s demise—and a small bowl of irregularly shaped sugar lumps.

  The cat gave her a reproving look, when she lifted the tray, which was just too rubbishing bad.

  “Eat a mouse, you fraud.” Heifer hadn’t caught a mouse in weeks, probably because that would require leaving the warmth of the hearth and actually doing some work.

  He sat up tall and wrapped his tail about his paws, very much on his injured dignity.

  “Drat you.” Hope tore a tiny crumb of melted cheese from the corner of a sandwich and dropped it on the hearth at Heifer’s paws. He fell to, and without a so much as hint of thanks.

  Hope left him to it—that might be the last cheese Heifer enjoyed for quite some time—and braved the frigid house and shadowed corridors. Candles were dear, coal was dear, everything was dear.

  Some memories were dear, and selling this house would make it harder to hold onto those memories.

  But much easier to keep body and soul together. Hope balanced the tray on her hip, lifted the latch on the study door, and executed the half-sidling maneuver that opened the door to the least degree necessary for the shortest possible time.

  Warmth was very dear.

  “I’ve brought…”

  Holly was fast asleep under acres of toasty wool, courtesy of Mr. Penrose’s caped great coat. He’d taken care to cover her feet, and to tuck the coat into the creases of the cushions lest Holly awaken shivering.

  Mr. Penrose himself was curled against the corner of the sofa, half-slouching, arms folded, his bare feet peeking out from beneath Edwin’s imagining afghan. Some people had considering caps to foster productive thoughts, Edwin had wrapped himself in an imagining afghan.

  Hope touched the top of one of those big feet before propriety could stifle maternal pragmatism. The only thing worse than an unwanted house guest at the holidays was an unwell unwanted house guest.

  Ice cold. He truly had walked half the length of London. Would a swindler bother to do that? Would he give up his coat to keep a child warm?

  She built up the fire, held her black shawl up before the leaping blaze, and when the wool was warm, wrapped it around those two large, pale feet. Mr. Penrose was by no means any sort of angel, but he was a stranger, and he was exhausted and hungry.

  Even for the sake of propriety, Hope would not turn him away in the middle of a cold, dark, snowy night.

  * * *

  This concludes your free sample from A Kiss for Hope. If you received this file as your final version of the novella, please contact your ebook retailer and they should be able to correct the error immediately.

  Chapter Six

  “Where is Chumley and who in blazes are you?” Joshua Penrose kept his teeth from chattering, but only just.

  He pushed past the unfriendly female who’d opened the door to his dwelling and stomped into the dimly lit foyer. The house was cold—what English house wasn’t cold in December?—and faintly scented with balsam. Somebody had no doubt hung greenery where it ought not to be, a problem to be dealt with after Joshua’s feet, face, and fingers had thawed.

  Assuming they ever did.

  “I am Mrs. Hope Burdette, and I will thank you to take yourself out of my house this instant.” Mrs. Burdette was tallish for a woman, and youngish for a housekeeper. She was clad in faded blue velvet skirts and at least two shawls, one black, one the same blue as the skirts. Both weree ratty at the edges.

  Fingerless black gloves completed this fetching ensemble, along with auburn hair scraped back into a bun. The scowl was imposing, or would have been were Joshua not exhausted past all bearing.

  He closed the door and tossed off a bow. “Joshua Penrose.” At your service would have been ridiculous. “I own the place. If you’re the housekeeper, you work for me. I need a fire, if you please. Also a plate of victuals—sandwiches will do—and something hot to drink. Tea is acceptable—strong China black—but a toddy or chocolate would be welcome too. I trust there’s a fire to be had somewhere?”

  “What did you say your name is?”

  Spare me from tippling servants. “Joshua Penrose. I am your employer, though I’ve been on extended travel in the New World. We haven’t met.” He’d remember that chin, which hinted of determination and an opinionated aristocrat or two somewhere higher up on the family tree. Swooping brows to go with an unapologetic nose and well defined jaw.

  Cobwebs, dust, and lackadaisical underlings would stand no chance with this lady.

  Mrs. Burdette was far from pretty, but she was attractive. She had substance and presence, and—Joshua would bet his share of the bank on this—an impressive temper.

 

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