The Christmas Conundrum Read online

  Mrs. Goforth set her cup on his desk. “But is it true? Are you running for the House for your district? Won’t that put you up against, your old arch rival, Thomas McCracken? I hear from the most reliable of sources he’s going to run again as well.”

  How does she find out these things? He and Thomas McCracken ran against each other in the last election, McCracken taking a far more conservative approach to issues than Daniel. But when Letty suddenly died and Daniel withdrew, leaving no time to find another candidate, McCracken had more or less won by default. The moderates in Daniel’s district had not been pleased, but Daniel had not even wanted to consider trying for a third term without Letty by his side. He’d thrown himself into his work as a barrister, spending the rest of his time comforting his three children in their mutual loss, even though the girls were married and his son done at university.

  Now five years later, with his adult children happily settled, the thought had occurred to him that if elected again, he might make some kind of difference in this too rapidly changing world. He’d enjoyed a good success during his two terms. As a moderate member of Parliament he might again do more for many than by simply being a barrister.

  But it was his decision to make and announce when and if he was ready. And here was Mrs. Goforth, acting as though she could reach into his inner most mind and read it like a well-thumbed book.

  It was not a pleasant thought.

  “Let’s put it this way, Mrs. Goforth,” Daniel said testily. “If and when I make such a decision, I will certainly include The Clarion among the newspapers with whom I share such news.”

  He bit the inside of his lip. Her reputation for asking disturbingly blunt and often unsettling questions was well known. He had promised himself he would not be goaded by this woman, and yet here she had very neatly done so. Perhaps the adjective conniving or sneaky should be added to the list of her descriptors.

  But both seemed too harsh for the woman in front of him. Her slender shape suggested a delicacy bordering on frailty until one observed the tilt of her chin or erectness of her carriage. She must have led her late husband a merry dance of wills, even though Daniel had heard over the years their devotion to one another had been as great as his to Letty.

  “One can’t ask for more than that.” She opened her purse to extract a card case. Taking one out, she passed it over to him and added, “I really should like to interview you on your position on a number of issues if and when you do decide to run.”

  “We’ll see,” Daniel said “But do I have your promise not to print any speculation you might hear about my so-called decision?”

  “You have my solemn word, “she said, closing her purse again. “Now I best not take up any more of your time before your kingmaker arrives.”

  “Kingmaker?” His earlier irritation returned and Daniel leaned forward. “What are you talking about, Mrs. Goforth?”

  “Nigel Davenport,” she said, pertly. “That is the ‘Mister Davenport’ to whom you referred to earlier, is it not?”

  “How in blazes did you know that?” Shock replaced Daniel’s usual good manners.

  “Your secretary left the doors open.” Her gentle smile taunted as well as teased him. “Everyone in the political community knows Davenport as being who one goes to if one is considering running for office. And here I thought his clients were usually more conservative than you. Isn’t the world full of surprises?”

  She stood and the familiar challenge at last arrived in her voice. “Idle chatter about you being named Queen’s Counsel is one thing, but when I hear Nigel Davenport is coming to your chambers, I begin to wonder if the rumors of you entering the political arena again aren’t true after all. But again, you have my word The Clarion will be silent on the subject until you tell us otherwise. And since the ‘sooner you are rid of me, the better’, I will bid you good morning, Mr. Hollingsworth. Give my best wishes to Mr. Davenport.”

  And with a nod, Mrs. Tabitha Goforth, the most troublesome woman in London and one who certainly deserved the appellation ‘that woman’ left Daniel’s chambers.

  Chapter Two

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, BOYS,” Tabitha greeted The Clarion’s youngest delivery team as she climbed the steps fronting the paper’s headquarters. A thin sheet of slush iced the sidewalks while swirling snowflakes arranged themselves in lacy patterns across her shoulders. It was bitter cold, even for late December. In the distance, church bells pealed out the one o’clock hour.

  “‘Afternoon, Miz Goforth.” The boys, ranging in age from nine to thirteen, pulled at the brim of their flat caps. They all attended the school where her younger daughter Clara taught and they had worked for Tabitha for over a year. Tabitha insisted they stay until their morning classes were finished before coming to pick up the afternoon edition and head out onto the streets.

  And she made doubly sure they all finished their rounds by nightfall. Their routes kept them well in the public view and they were strictly forbidden to deviate from them. Certain London neighborhoods could be dangerous, even in broad daylight, and they were just boys, after all.

  But even though their work hours were relatively short, she made sure their wages were enough to help support their families. She gave them a quick once-over, satisfied that their sturdy coats, hats, scarves and gloves, courtesy of The Clarion, kept out the December cold.

  “Any news to report?” she asked, stamping the snow from her boots. “Any upheaval or disasters since breakfast?”

  “No, ma’am,” Abner, the eldest told her. “All’s well in London-town.”

  “Then all is well.” Tabitha smiled at them. “Be careful. The snow is getting thick.”

  She pushed the front door open, their farewells chorusing behind her. Inside, the office staff either kept their concentration on their typewriters or pads of paper on their desks. Beneath her, the great press hummed, sending gentle vibrations through the floor. Her office door stood open, and inside, a tall, figure sat behind one of the two facing desks.

  “Hello, dearest,” she called to her elder daughter as she stepped inside and closed the door. “What brings you here?”

  “Did you get the interview with Daniel Hollingsworth?” Elizabeth asked eagerly. “Is he going to run for Parliament again?”

  “My dear, let me at least take off my things.” Tabitha peeled off her outer garments and hung them on the hall tree before sitting behind her desk. “Is there tea? I’ve done three other interviews since leaving Mr. Hollingsworth’s chambers this morning and I’m chilled to the bone.”

  “I just got here myself, so there’s no tea,” Elizabeth said. “Well? What did he tell you?”

  “Sometimes I wish you had your sister’s gift of patience,” Tabitha said fondly. “When you want something, you want it now. You always did, even when you were a little girl. Clara was always willing to wait. She said she liked being surprised.”

  “Why wait?” Elizabeth returned with a laugh. “If Hollingsworth is going to run for office again, London Women United will need to start planning their strategy to help defeat him. And except for finding work for my clients, and writing newspaper articles, I have no patience. Which is why Clara is far more suited to teach school than I would ever be. I’m a reformer, through and through.”

  “Clara has more patience than both of us together,” Tabitha agreed. “I marvel at how she can transform a room full of restless children into eager and awed learners. Their parents have told me they adore her.”

  “As well they should,” Elizabeth said proudly. “So, now that I’ve waited all of a minute, what did Hollingsworth say about running for the House for his district again?”

  “He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either,” Tabitha said. “But since Nigel Davenport was scheduled to arrive at any minute, I think it’s safe to say he’s seriously considering it.”

  Elizabeth released a long, low whistle. “Mother, I know you can be persuasive, but how on earth did you get him to admit that? Nigel Davenport!”
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  “I didn’t,” Tabitha admitted. “I overheard him tell his secretary—who left the doors open while I was waiting to see him — that the sooner the interview with me was completed, the better. But of course, he was too well-mannered to say so to my face.”

  “Men!” Elizabeth snorted in a very unladylike fashion. “If he’s going to run, why doesn’t he just come out and say so? Why all the secrecy? Hollingsworth has certainly made his views on women’s suffrage well enough known in those letters to The Times.”

  “Mr. Hollingsworth, dear,” Tabitha corrected. “There’s no need to be disrespectful. No doubt Nigel Davenport has advised him not to say anything. At least not yet. But you must admit, compared to Thomas McCracken’s reactionary views on women’s suffrage, Daniel Hollingsworth’s are almost liberal.” She paused, and then just to tease Elizabeth added, “Even though you heartily dislike him, you must admit that with his dark hair and darker eyes, Mr. Daniel Micah Hollingsworth is one of the best-looking men in London.”

  Elizabeth made a face. “As if I would care about such a thing. He opposes women’s suffrage, Mother. That’s enough for me to dislike him. I’ll bet he persuaded Angus Findley to act as prosecutor and put us in jail last summer.”

  “We’re lucky that Angus Findley didn’t persuade the magistrate who heard our case to throw away the key,” Tabitha said. “I wonder what Mr. Hollingsworth would have done if he’d been Queen’s Counsel. I think that another visit to his chambers in the near future might be in order just to see what I can learn, if only to agitate Mr. Davenport or that secretary.”

  She glanced at the chalkboard on the wall showing which of her reporters were in or out of the office. “Where are Caleb and Martin?” she asked.

  Reporters Caleb Hawkins and Martin Honeywell had worked for The Clarion for years and shared Tabitha and Elizabeth’s zeal for social causes. If not for them, the newspaper might have folded when Elizabeth and Tabitha were last in jail.

  “Caleb is covering a debate at the House on Home Rule for Ireland and Martin is skulking around the East End, looking for those hidden factories and workhouses and learning who their owners are.” Elizabeth’s blue eyes, so like her father’s, glittered with a reformer’s righteous zeal. “I’d love for you to be able to expose them and print their names in The Clarion!”

  “Only when we know for sure who they are, my dear,” Tabitha warned. “Remember the paper’s motto. Semper Veritas.”

  “Always truthful,” Elizabeth said. “Of course, Mother. Father would rise from his grave if we did anything else.”

  “Now that would be a story! Deceased editor returns from the dead to run his newspaper!” Tabitha declared, and they shared a laugh.

  “By the way, Henry Lyons came by while you were out,” Elizabeth said casually.

  Tabitha was tempted to roll her eyes at the mention of her late husband’s oldest friend who worked as a reporter at The Times. Henry was a nice man, but his unannounced visits here at the office and at her Marylebone home had increased in the past few months. “What did he want?”

  “He said he needed to talk to you concerning ‘a matter of utmost importance’” Elizabeth deepened her tone to match Lyons’ gruff voice. “He was in a hurry, as he always is and wanted to know if he could come by the house tonight. So of course I told him I would be happy to deliver his message.” A wicked grin crossed Elizabeth’s features. “I think he’s sweet on you, Mother.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth. Henry and I are friends, that’s all.” Tabitha picked up yesterday’s Times and pretended to read a story about a drought in India. “Besides, I have other plans for tonight. Henry will have to wait. I’ll be sure to send a note to his rooms.”

  “Sometimes lovers start as friends,” Elizabeth coaxed. “A pretty widow. A handsome widower—”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been reading Emma again.” Tabitha put down the newssheet. “I will thank you, Elizabeth, not to try your hand at matchmaking. How many times must I remind you, I have no interest in marrying again? Your father was a very rare man who completely believed in the causes of social justice. The fact that he helped found a local women’s suffrage group attests to that. And since you, my dear—” Tabitha pointed an accusing finger at her first-born—“have declared you will never marry, you’re using damp powder.”

  “I suppose it’s because I know it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever find a man who will hold those principles,” Elizabeth said wistfully. “Papa was one of a kind.”

  The old loss swelled in Tabitha’s heart. “He was indeed, my dear. Why try to replace perfection? To have found it once in a lifetime was a rare gift indeed.”

  “So did you and Daniel Hollingsworth manage to talk about anything important?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Well, he did ask if we’d been arrested lately,” Tabitha said. “I almost think he was disappointed when I told him I hadn’t.”

  “Did my last arrest embarrass you, Mother?” Elizabeth leaned forward, clasping her gloved hands. “It wasn’t the fault of London Women United that old fogey started yelling profanity at us. I simply refused to let him talk to us that way.”

  “My dear, of course I’m not embarrassed,” Tabitha said firmly. “I’m proud of you for taking a stand in what you believe. I probably would have done the same thing if I hadn’t been covering that story about education reform with Clara.” Recalling The Times description of the whiskered man’s outrage, she added, “Though I think he was more upset about you damaging his top hat with your umbrella than anything else. Who wears a top hat in Hyde Park these days?”

  “Well, LWU is planning a rally just before Christmas, so we’ll be sure you’re in the front of the crowd this time,” Elizabeth said. “I’m going by Clara’s school with a donation of pencils and paper from some LWU friends before I interview that woman who petitioned to join the All London Billiard and Chess Club using her initials and was then denied entrance when they learned he was a she. And Mr. Lyons said he would come by the house tonight at seven unless he heard from you otherwise, so you better send him a note as soon as possible.”

  “Men!” Tabitha imitated her daughter’s earlier exasperation. “Why must they always presume we have nothing else to with our lives but wait for them to call on us?”

  “Heaven knows,” Elizabeth intoned, heading toward the door. “Shall you and Mr. Lyons announce the banns or simply marry by special license?”

  She barely had time to close the door before Tabitha’s well pitched pencil landed directly against it.

  Chapter Three

  “ARE YOU SERIOUSLY ADVISING me to marry again if I decide to run for the House, Nigel?”

  Daniel stared at his friend and possible campaign manager as his carriage made its way through the London streets. Even though it was early evening, fog had nearly swallowed the streetlights’ glow, while adding a damp chill to the air. But the muted cries of street vendors and the clip-clop of hackneys and private conveyances outside proved people were out and about. At least it had stopped snowing.

  Immediately after Mrs. Goforth’s departure, a plea from a client for advice had taken him out of his chambers for hours, postponing his meeting with Nigel. He’d grabbed lunch at his club before going to the House of Commons to hear a debate on funding secondary education, hoping to meet with Nigel this evening.

  But any such plans were thwarted by the presence in his home library of a gold-edged invitation to a buffet supper this evening from Lady Cecily Cranwell.

  And one declined an invitation from Lady Cecily, dowager Countess of Tillery, at one’s own risk. Along with her sisters Emily Oakendale, Dowager Marchioness of Guliford, and Agnes Altman, Dowager Viscountess Darrow, they wielded a social and behind the scenes political power in London that rivaled the old patronesses of Almack’s during the Regency. Even when her husband Lord Alfred was alive, Lady Cecily had cut a wide swath in Society. Widowed twenty years, she still did as she pleased and got away with all kinds of thin
gs with a smile and an irresistible charm. It was to this powerhouse’s home that he and Nigel Davenport now traveled.

  And Lady Cecily had requested her guests arrive at the unusually early time of six o’clock for a buffet style supper, giving him and Nigel plenty of time to meet later. No doubt some of the guests wanted to have enough time to make the nine o’clock curtain at the West End theaters after they dined. Daniel wondered what sort of entertainment “The Old Girl”, had in mind for her guests that planned to stay for the evening. Daniel had no doubt that politics would be on the after dinner menu. “Are the voters really going to care whether I’m married or not?” he asked now.

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” Nigel commented. “Marriage shows stability, a more traditional kind of man, one who upholds family values. And people will remember your withdrawing from the last race after Letty died. They’ll view you with kindness and sympathy because of it.”

  Daniel frowned. “If I run for the House again, I’d want to be elected on my experience and knowledge of the issues, not because people feel sorry for me.”

  “Of course,” Nigel quickly amended. “But played correctly, it could be a point in your favor.”

  “Have you been following the stories by Phillip Caulfield about those East End slums in The Times?” Daniel asked abruptly. “This morning’s made the front page.”

  The story, scathing in its indictment of the wretched living conditions of what passed for housing and its equally wretched occupants, had appeared in every major newspaper in London. Mr. Edgeworth had told him it was printed in York, Manchester and Birmingham as well. Caulfield had not spared his vitriol in condemning the owners for deliberately ignoring or not concerning themselves with the needs of the renters.

  It was not the first time Caulfield took such a stand on social issues. It was rumored some newspapers actually refused to print his stories out of fear of reprisal. To add to his reputation, the elusive journalist was rumored to be so disfigured no one had ever seen him. Instead, his stories would show up on an editor’s desk, neatly typed, in a large plain envelope. Some might be afraid of falling victim to his next accusation, but many in London eagerly waited for his next story. Daniel had to admit, the man wrote well, with a strong, clean, straight-to-the-facts style but one appealing to the readers’ sympathies at the same time. No wonder people were in awe of him.