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The Christmas Conundrum
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THE CHRISTMAS CONUNDRUM
Karen Hall
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Christmas Conundrum
Copyright
Other titles by Karen Hall
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
Books to Go Now
Excerpt from The Christmas Conundrum
Recalling some of its stories from his last campaign, Daniel asked, “Am I to expect fair and balanced reporting from The Clarion?”
Her eyes darkened, piercing him with an unspoken accusation and he realized he had angered her. “Mrs. Goforth-”
“The Clarion’s motto is Semper Veritas, sir.” Her chilly tone rivaled the December wind picking up around them. “I presume you have enough Latin to understand what that means?”
And before he could offer an apology, she was striding to the corner and a waiting cab.
Copyright
The Christmas Conundrum
Books to Go Now Publication
Copyright © Karen Hall 2017
Books to Go Now
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First eBook Edition October 2017
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
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Other titles by Karen Hall
One Horse Open Sleigh Race, The Great Christmas Candy Caper, A Christmas Proposal, The Comet that Came for Christmas, Star Carol for Celeste, Christmas Stockings, You’re My Secret Santa, Baby, Love Came for Christmas.
Chapter One
GRAY’S INN OF COURT. London. 1899
Half-past eight o’clock am
It is a commonly held belief that a gentleman widowed several years who is in possession of a great fortune and charm, as well as amazingly good looks for a man in his mid-fifties, must certainly be in want—if not need—of a second wife.
Daniel Micah Hollingsworth—Dan to his friends—barrister, senior board member of the Davies, Barkley and Smithfield Shipping Company and member of any number of philanthropic boards, stared at his appointment book and sighed. His daughters Katherine and Victoria-both incurable romantics-had entered in several dinner engagements for him over the next two weeks, all at the homes of Society widows, or at homes of gentlemen of his acquaintance who had sisters who were such. If his eyes did not deceive him, the ink looked newly penned.
Of course, none of this was done with his permission. But after a suitable period of mourning after the death of his wife Letty five years ago and still continuing to insist he was not in the “marriage market,” Katherine and Victoria had recently made it their mission in life to find him a wife. Daniel would really have to speak to their husbands about keeping them in check.
But considering Letty had possessed a mind of her own and had developed a most effective way of getting her own way-usually for the best of reasons-he could hardly blame the girls for inheriting the mother’s persuasive talents.
Normally he might suspect his valet, Oscar to be a part of this trifecta conspiracy. Despite being a confirmed bachelor, Oscar’s dropped hints about a man in Daniel’s position needing a wife were all too obvious.
At least, for now, Daniel was safe from the man’s machinations. The arrival of a sister long in the Chinese mission field at his Northumberland family home three days ago had prompted Oscar’s hasty trip north. Lovely country, Northumberland. But at this time of year, when one’s breath could nearly freeze as soon as it left your mouth, only the hardiest of souls would venture so far afield. Daniel preferred his winters less Arctic.
But Oscar knew better than to let Daniel’s daughters get their hands on his appointment book. They must have sneaked into the library after Oscar left. After all, they’d grown up in that house and knew it far better than their married ones. They’d always had free access to the library growing up and even actually read the classics. Who would suspect his daughters could be so sneaky? He would really have to start leaving the appointment book here in his chambers, especially if they planned to eventually marry him off.
Widows. They were almost certainly as frightening as mothers with daughters of marriageable age. They could sniff out a widower or a life-long bachelor like a truffle-hunting hound or set cleverly hidden “attraction” traps with the skill of a huntsman, all with the promise to turn his “empty, lonely life” into one of happiness again.
And right now, Christmas engagements were all the rage in this year of our Lord 1899, with churches already booked for weddings after the New Year. Even more so, because the days were winding down until the beginning of the twentieth century. That thought alone with all the new modern inventions and social manners, was almost as daunting as a battalion of widows.
Perhaps spending Christmas in Northumberland was something to consider.
The door swung open without the preamble of a knock and Daniel’s private secretary, George Edgeworth, hurled himself into the spacious office. He tugged at his tie, undoing its perfect four-in-hand knot and upsetting the placement of his carefully starched collar. Even his hair appeared mussed and out of place. Edgeworth had a touch of an old-fashioned dandy in his appearance, even if he was only thirty years old. He was an excellent secretary and at Daniel’s request, learned how to type and take shorthand.
But now this paragon of secretarial efficiency could not seem to control his rapid blinking while his mouth opened and closed several times as if trying to decide whether to breathe or ask a question.
“Well, Mr. Edgeworth?” Daniel peered at the man over his gold-rimmed reading glasses. “Has someone died?”
“It’s-it’s-it’s that woman!” Edgeworth gasped, pointing over his shoulder. “‘That’” woman, sir!”
“Do you mean Mrs. Tabitha Goforth?” Daniel took off his glasses and put them in his waistcoat pocket. “The only woman in London who doesn’t need to be introduced by her given name but is simply known to everyone by the phrase, ‘that woman’?”
“Yes sir.” Edgeworth fairly huffed out his answer. “I can’t imagine why she would even dare show her face here. A woman who is a suffragist and a reformer and —”
“Did you ask her?”
“I, sir?” An interesting shade of purple flooded Edgeworth’s face. “Do you think for a moment I would have asked her here?”
“I meant did you ask her what she wanted?” Daniel said patiently, trying not to enjoy Edgeworth’s discomfort. For a man of his tender years, the man could be stuffier than the Queen herself. He could rise to a bait like an unsuspecting trout.
Should I ask you to stay and witness the fireworks? No, your heart might stop and it’s too late in the year to find and hire a new secretary. “Well, we mustn’t keep the lady waiting.” Daniel straightened his cuffs. “Show the lady in, please, Mr. Edgeworth.”
“A lady?” Shock widened Edgeworth’s eyes to a nearly alarming size. “You’re calling Tabitha Goforth a lady?”
Recalling The Times description of his visitor after her last arrest in Hyde Park this past summer, Daniel controlled his smile with some difficulty. “There may be a fine line between a woman and a lady, Edgeworth, but Mrs. Goforth hasn’t crossed it-yet. Bring her in, please.”
“But sir, you have an appointment with Mr. Davenport in a quarter of an hour.” His secretary pulled out his own pocket watch as if to confirm the time for himself. He was obviously not going to give up keeping Mrs. Goforth away from Daniel without a final attempt at doing so.
“Which is exactly why you should show in Mrs. Goforth as quickly as possible,” Daniel pointed out. “The sooner we’re done with ‘that woman,’ the better, wouldn’t you say?”
A triumphant smile erased the petulant frown creasing Edgeworth’s face. “Yes sir! Indeed, yes.”
He turned on the heels of his highly polished shoes and with a slower speed than the one with which he arrived, entered his own office through the open door and the waiting room just beyond. In his distress, Mr. Edgeworth had left all the doors open. Daniel stood and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, preparing himself to meet with the most troublesome woman in London. Mrs. Tabitha Goforth, widow, had certainly earned the sobriquet “that” woman. Reformer, reporter, and even, some whispered, radical. Opinionated, outspoken and obstinate. That was one widow he wouldn’t have to worry about being introduced to at dinner as a possible matrimonial candidate. They traveled in entirely different social circles. Besides, Katherine and Victoria would have a matching set of vapors if it were even suggested he and Mrs. Goforth meet outside a courtroom or public event.
The soft rustle of skirts against the carpeted floor of Edgeworth’s office sounded his visitor’s approach. Daniel prepared himself with a long breath in and out, and waited.
“Mrs. Goforth,” Edgeworth announced, entering once more.
His disapproving tone could have rivaled Her Majesty’s “we are not amused” pronouncement. So would his dour expression. Daniel gave the woman following his secretary his most charming smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Goforth. How are you this fine and frosty day?”
His visitor could not have stood much over five feet tall but she carried herself with the regal air of a woman far taller. Dark green eyes regarded him in a frank but not unfriendly manner. Her clothing, while not the height of fashion, was neat and practical as suited the winter weather outside. A pretty woman, but one who needed watching. Watching very carefully.
“I am well, Mr. Hollingsworth,” she said, tucking a stray chestnut curl behind her ear as she stopped her brisk stride to stand next to the chair placed before his desk. “I suppose you’ll think me rather forward to just show up in your chambers without an invitation.”
“Why should such a question from one of London’s most well-known reporters—”
“Journalists,” she corrected with a pert smile, the light of challenge entering her eyes.
“—surprise me?” Daniel finished, bowing his head. “I stand corrected. Journalist.” He looked past her to add, “That will do for now, Mr. Edgeworth. Let me know when Mr. Davenport arrives.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Hollingsworth.” Edgeworth sent a haughty smirk at Mrs. Goforth’s back and departed, closing the door behind him.
“Please.” Daniel gestured at the chair and then at the tea tray on his desk. “Would you care for a cup? I believe it’s still hot. Or I could offer you a cup of Smoking Bishop if you prefer something warmer. I guarantee it will take the edge off this very chilly day.”
Her eyes twinkled with good humor. “I think it’s a bit early in the day for that kind of Christmas cheer. A cup of Smoking Bishop would have me curled up under my desk and I still have work to do. But a cup of tea would be wonderful, thank you.”
She sat and put the small purse she carried beside her. Daniel waited until she had situated herself before filling one of the several cups on the tray. She picked it up before he could ask her what she might require for it and took a long, almost grateful sip. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. “I believe that the temperature is dropping by the second. Even with gloves, my hands have been cold all morning. Elizabeth said to tell you ‘hello’.”
Daniel filled his own cup before leaning against his leather chair’s high back. “How is your daughter, Elizabeth, Mrs. Goforth? Have either of you been arrested lately?”
“I’ve not been since the summer,” she replied after taking another sip from the bone china cup. “But Elizabeth was arrested again just last month. When I told her I was coming to see you today, she asked me to thank your Queen’s Counsel friend Mr. Agnus Findley for prosecuting us and our women’s suffrage group, London Women United this past July. We learned the kind of lessons one only can learn from spending two weeks in jail. We found it most instructional.”
“Indeed?” Wondering if the sarcasm were her own or her daughter’s, Daniel sipped his tea before asking, “And what did you learn?”
A dangerous gleam replaced her eyes’ twinkle. ”You didn’t read her story in The Herald?”
“I did,” Daniel said wryly. “While I may not agree with you or your daughter’s politics, Mrs. Goforth, she did her usual eloquent job in describing your experiences while incarcerated. If she ever turns her hand to being a reporter-or should I say journalist-full time, the newspapers of London shall make far very interesting reading.”
The interview had caused an uproar throughout London, from The Times and a dozen other newspapers to no fewer than twenty church pulpits, remaining the talk of the town for weeks afterwards. Everyone it seemed had an opinion and the editorial pages were full of their responses. Some had gone as far as to call Elizabeth’s description of the jail conditions-filthy beyond belief, food barely fit for any animal, let alone a human, absolutely no privacy, and a heat so great it was guaranteed to produce unconsciousness-a pack of lies. Certainly the warden of the jail had claimed as much. Daniel gazed at the well-groomed woman sitting before him and tried to conjure an image of her smudge-faced and hungry, and possibly frightened. Had she and Elizabeth endured the ordeal together or had the wardens separated them, fearing the power of two Goforths, shoulder to shoulder?
A formidable pair indeed.
“I’ll tell her you said so,” Mrs. Goforth said, flashing a bright smile. “She’ll be pleased at such high praise from one of London’s most respected barristers.”
“So what is Elizabeth doing these days other than writing articles for newspapers?” Daniel asked, his gaze flickering toward the wall clock. A few more minutes of banter and Nigel Davenport would be here, freeing him from this interview.
“Elizabeth still works at the Goforth Employment agency, the one she helped found nine years ago. You know, the one that helps immigrants and poor people find good jobs so they can support themselves and their families.” Mrs. Goforth reached for the teapot and filled her cup again before Daniel could offer to do so.
“A work for which I am sure she is well suited,” Daniel commented. “And your other daughter, Clara? Does she ever involve herself in suffragist politics?”
Mrs. Goforth smiled as only a proud mother can. “Clara helps from the sidelines when she can. She’s far too busy teaching school to be as involved as Elizabeth is. But she very much believes in the cause.”
The cause. Daniel was tempted to remind his guest that Her Majesty Victoria heartily disapproved of women’s campaign to win the right to vote. But th
en he was quiet sure she knew that. One would have to be living in a cave not to know that.
“So, Mrs. Goforth.” Daniel settled back against his chair again. “I’m sure there must be a specific reason for your visit today. How may I help one of London’s most well-known female—journalists?” He paused before pronouncing the final word, just to see if she would bristle like Edgeworth, or show a bit of a sense of humor.
Another smile rewarded his second theory. “Do you suppose,” she drawled, as if she too savored her choice of words, “the day will ever come when women will only be identified by their profession and not an identifying noun for their gender?”
“I have no idea,” Daniel admitted. “But you have the advantage of surprise on your side, Mrs. Goforth. How may I help you?”
“I hear you’re being considered for Queen’s Counsel. And that you’re also considering another run for the House of Commons. Is it true?” Her eyebrows rose in anticipation.
Grateful he had not yet swallowed more tea—choking in the presence of a lady was ‘not the thing’ as his only son Charlie—no one ever called him Charles—would say. Daniel set his cup down. “Where did you hear that, Mrs. Goforth?”
The challenge in her eyes lit up her face. “I’m a journalist, Mr. Hollingsworth. I hear all kinds of things in my daily work. Bits of this, bits of that.”
No doubt from those socialist-leaning clubs for liberal journalists that permit women to join. Irritation began to inch its way up Daniel’s spine. “You’re not going to print those ‘bits’ in your newspaper, are you?”
“In The Clarion? Without positive confirmation?” She blinked as if his question surprised her. “Goodness no. My late husband Clive would pitch a fit. We built The Clarion’s reputation for journalistic excellence on finding out the facts before we print them, not on gossip and innuendo.”
“How very sporting of you,” Daniel said dryly. A reporter—no, make that journalist—who owned her own newspaper. Somehow that didn’t seem quite fair.
Star Carol for Celeste
Dark Debts
The Christmas Conundrum