The Christmas Blend Read online

  SWEETER THAN EXPECTED

  In Victorian England, a young widow has two choices: remarry for security or remain in mourning for the rest of her days. Isobel Duckett is determined to do neither. When she learns her brother, who was entrusted with the management of her dead husband’s brewery, has nearly run it into bankruptcy, she takes over to save her legacy. What she learns about herself is more than startling. She can love again.

  In London’s East End, a man has few options for bettering himself. Silver-tongued and handsome or not, hardworking and clever or not, his place in society is fixed. But Nat Cotter is unwilling to play by those rules. Not when his father and the rest of his family are on the brink of ruin. This holiday season he must make a choice to obey the dictates of society or challenge all that stands in the way of happiness. The reward will be greater than he ever imagines: the heart of a woman not only above him, but his equal.

  THE CHRISTMAS BLEND

  Veronica Bale

  www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

  THE CHRISTMAS BLEND

  Copyright © 2016 Katherine Ellyse LeGrand

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

  ISBN 978-1-944262-44-0

  E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  To my mother Wendy and my sister Jennifer…may we always be Christmas nuts together!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I would like to thank the fantastic team at Boroughs Publishing Group for their hard work and dedication to making this book a reality. Michelle Klayman’s enthusiasm and patience is forever appreciated, and her encouragement dearly valued. To my husband Jeff and my son Christopher, thank you for giving me the time and space to do what I love. And to all my readers, the biggest thank-you goes to you for giving me the inspiration to write every day. You mean the world to me.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sample Chapter: A Noble Treason

  About the Author

  Also by Veronica Bale

  THE CHRISTMAS BLEND

  Chapter One

  London, 1860

  The sun was just starting to rise over the city of London, turning the morning sky a soft lilac-gray. Outside the window of the Cotter family’s two-room tenement flat was the melody of another day getting underway, though the hour was not yet six.

  For the poor of London’s East End, if one wanted to work, one had to rise early.

  Nat Cotter bent and looked into the small mirror that was propped on the mantel. He smoothed his dark curls and adjusted the collar of his shirt. His clothes were beginning to look a little too ragged for his liking—he had not had a new shirt in five years, and the trousers were ones that his father had worn for five years before that. But at least they were clean and mended.

  Above anything else, Nathaniel Cotter took pride in his appearance, which was something most unskilled labourers like him didn’t bother with. While he may have no steady work to speak of, he at least aspired to a regular job, and he was more likely to come across one if he was clean, well groomed and respectable. It was the motto by which his father lived, and which he had passed onto Nat and his siblings.

  Satisfied that he was looking as well as he could, Nat sliced the heel off the loaf of wholemeal bread his twelve-year-old sister, Rose, had made the day before. No bought bread for the Cotter family. Rose had learned from Mother that bought bread was not to be trusted. Too often there was chalk or plaster dust added to the flour. Besides, if the choice was between clothing for himself and proper (but more expensive) bread flour for his brother and sisters, then Nat would happily forgo the former.

  With a hunk of Rose’s bread lodged in his cheek, he bent to kiss first five-year-old Oliver, then three-year-old Mary, both of whom were still blissfully unconscious. Rose, too, was still asleep, but Nat didn’t dare kiss her. One touch of his lips to her forehead and she would wake. An unfortunate side effect of having been made to grow up too quickly.

  His father emerged from the one room he and Nat shared as Nat was tiptoeing towards the door. Joseph Cotter peered into the dim room, bleary eyed.

  “You’re off then, son?”

  “I am,” Nat responded. “You on day shift today?”

  “I am.”

  “Rosie washed your spare shirt for you.”

  Mr. Cotter smiled fondly at the shape of his eldest daughter on her cot in the corner. Her small frame rose and lowered gently with each breath she took.

  “I don’t know why she bothers. I always come back stinking of hops and the brew house. Just like all the other men.”

  “Ah, but to her you’re not just another man. You’re her daddy. She’s Mam’s girl, through and through.”

  “Ne’er was a truer word spoke. Well then, I won’t keep yer. Take care out there. And good luck finding the work.”

  Nat left their flat and headed down the three narrow flights of stairs of his tenement. Outside, the air was damp, evidence of the rain that had come last night. He and his father had spent all night trying to ignore the “drip, drip, drip” of water into the saucepan from the leak in the roof.

  As he made his way through the dank and cramped laneways of Spitalfields, he nodded to a friendly face or two in passing, and helped an old Russian immigrant woman with the basket she’d dropped. His walk took him in the direction of the river, where the best place to get work was the docks. It was where almost all the male inhabitants of this part of East London went to find work, and Nat was almost always one of the first there, rain or shine.

  The rain—oh, it did make the Thames an even greater stinking cesspool than it was usually. This morning, after the good long rain of last night, was no exception. The river’s stench saturated the air as he walked. But it could always be worse. He could be one of the scavengers: old women, children, and other assorted wretches who came at low tide to pick through the slime for bits of rope, scraps of metal, or anything else that could be sold.

  It was sad. It made Nat all the more determined to get good work where and when he could. It helped that he knew how to charm and had a talent for persuasion. It hadn’t yet landed him a permanent job, but he was hopeful. And he was able and wished to bring in enough money to augment his father’s steady wages from the Duckett and Company brewery. Rose, too, helped where she could by taking in mending when it was available.
They’d all had to pitch in to fill the void from Mother’s passing three years ago, when wee Mary had come into the world.

  Nat arrived early, but oddly, the docks were already full of men looking for work.

  The supervisor, Mr. Slattery, spotted him above the heads.

  “Y’awright, Nat?” he called.

  “I’m in fine form, Mr. Slattery, thank you for asking.” Nat weaved his way to the front of the crowd.

  “You’re just in time. I was about to give your work away to this fellow here. But it’s yours if you want it.”

  Nat’s eyes slid to the fellow in question. He was older than Nat, into his forties, and his shoulders had the telltale stoop of a hard life that all the men of East London had. But he looked strong.

  He also looked upset that his work was about to be given away to another.

  “Oh, now, Mr. Slattery. As much as I don’t want to turn down work, I also don’t want to be taking it away from someone who’s earned it.”

  “You’re turning it down?” Mr. Slattery’s bushy eyebrows rose.

  Nat thought quickly. “How about this: Me new friend here and I will work the shift together. We’ll split the pay.” To his new friend, who looked disgruntled by the proposal, he said, “It’s better than nothing, ain’t it? He gets two bodies at the price of one.”

  Mr. Slattery shook his head, amused. “Giving up half your pay? What’s in it for you?”

  “Ah, but that’s the thing. I have it on good authority there’s an early shipment coming down from Duckett and Company this afternoon. These poor wretches behind me will have all left to find work elsewhere by the time it comes, and you’ll be wanting hands. Now, if I’m right about that, then what’s in it for me is that you pay us a day and a half each, because we’ll be staying on to do the work that should really be done by four or five men.” His eyes twinkled, and he shrugged. “We all win.”

  Mr. Slattery was impressed, and even Nat’s new friend was beginning to grow hopeful.

  “That golden tongue of yours, Nat,” the supervisor said admiringly. “It’s either going to make you a fortune, or land you in the stocks one of these days.”

  Nat laughed. “Let’s hope it’s the first, yeah?”

  Then he tipped his head to his new friend, and the two walked out onto the docks to begin unloading the cargo that was waiting.

  He immersed himself in the work, glad of the chance to put in a hard day’s graft. There was nothing quite like the feel of being bone weary at the end of the day, but knowing you had a wage packet in your shirt pocket, and a nice fire and a bit of stew to come home to.

  Perhaps tonight on his way home he’d pop into the pub for a pint. Just one. Never more than one. His father never minded, and he would have an extra half-day’s pay today, for he was certain of the Duckett and Company shipment. He and his father had talked about it last night at supper.

  Yes, thought Nat as he hoisted another sack onto his shoulder. Life was not bad.

  Chapter Two

  Across the city, in the business district of Guilford Street, life did not appear to be good for Isobel Duckett.

  Seated at the large oak desk in the offices of Nicoll and Entwhistle, Isobel stared dumbly at the thick ledger of Duckett and Company’s accounts spread before her. Scattered over the desk’s surface were more documents that outlined the terms for three loans taken out in two years. And in the corner of the desk were a stack of credit notes, which remained unpaid by the business.

  “You see why I had to bring this to your attention?” Mr. Entwhistle said gently.

  Isobel nodded. She did not look up, but could very well imagine the look on her lawyer and business advisor’s face. His kind eyes were probably apologetic, and his little gray head bent over his hands, which he was no doubt wringing furiously.

  “I would have brought this to you sooner,” he continued, “but Mr. Dyer assured me he would discuss this with you himself. He promised me months ago that he would make you aware of this. I trusted his word.”

  “Yes,” Isobel answered hoarsely. “It appears we all trusted my brother with a great many things, I’m afraid.” To herself, she added, “As I’ve done far too often in the past.”

  She could not believe it, but the evidence was irrefutable. Charles had known for some time that the brewery was in trouble. He’d incurred serious debts. And he hadn’t said a word to her. Isobel had always suspected that her brother was not the businessman he pretended to be, but without proof that Duckett and Company was suffering, she’d been content to believe he was handling her business affairs effectively.

  How wrong she’d been.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Well…” Mr. Entwhistle paused. “Your late husband had some bonds that could be cashed. But not enough to make a significant dent in the debts. And you could appeal to the bank to see if they’ll extend you more time to pay the loan. But without enough revenue coming in, you wouldn’t be able to live up to your promise, even if you can persuade them to be lenient. I am dreadfully sorry, but your immediate option is to cut jobs. You must let some of your employees go.”

  “Is that wise? Will the brewery function with less labor?”

  “It can if we reduce our output.”

  “But no output means no revenue.”

  “It does,” he agreed. “Right now, Mrs. Duckett, we’re trying to clot the bleed. That’s all. We have outstanding shipments for which we’re expecting payment. That money can help with the outstanding bills, and buy you time to liquidate additional funds. That is, if you have additional funds to liquidate.”

  Isobel sank back into the chair. My, but her corset was tight. And the air was hot. Were the walls pressing in on her or was it just her imagination?

  The brewery. Her husband’s business, which had been passed down to him by his father, which had been passed down by his father before. Not three years after her beloved Andrew’s death, and the business was now teetering on the brink of bankruptcy thanks to her feckless brother. Her brother—to whom Isobel had turned over management, she reminded herself with sickening clarity.

  Charles may be responsible, but it was she, Isobel, who was accountable.

  It was all her fault.

  Mr. Entwhistle—kind Mr. Entwhistle who had done his very best for both the company and her family, helping her transition from wife to widow to owner in the difficult period of Andrew’s brief and sudden illness—hung his head as though it were he who had done something wrong.

  “It is a shame we shall have to take jobs away from hard-working men,” she said.

  She said it for no reason, really, other than to stall for time. But she quickly realized this was what she was doing. With no other option, Isobel nodded decisively.

  “Well, Mr. Entwhistle, if you think this is the only way, then I trust your judgment. Do as you must.”

  Those words marked the end of their meeting. Isobel left the offices with assurances that Nicoll and Entwhistle would do all they could on her behalf, and she had smiled and thanked them for their assistance.

  But when the door closed, she felt like the sky was bearing down on her, accusing her of failure. She felt like every pair of eyes that glanced her way out on the street was blaming her for all she’d done wrong, all she’d shut her mind to.

  They would be right.

  The coach ride back to her residence in Eaton Square in the district of Belgravia was a heavy-hearted one. Thoughts of the business, of Charles’s failure to manage the business, and of her own complacency, weighted her mind. And on top of it all, it was Charles’s birthday celebration tonight. Her mother had talked Isobel into holding a surprise supper with all of her friends.

  Isobel didn’t know what was worse: seeing those empty-headed women and those pompous men, or having to spend an evening pretending she was not angry with her brother.

  Every window of her terrace house was lit up when she arrived, blazing against the dark October night. She peered out of the carriage up at the
white stucco walls, the pillars and the second-floor balcony, and wanted nothing more than to slink in through the servants’ entrance and crawl up to bed.

  Before she could make up her mind to do just that, however, her coachman had come around to help her out. Willcox, her butler, was standing at the door waiting to receive her. Reluctantly, she disembarked and climbed the two short steps from the street.

  “Good evening, madam,” he offered in the deep, languorous way he spoke.

  “Good evening, Willcox. Will you have Stott bring a pot of hot chocolate to my room? I feel I need something sweet to settle my nerves.”

  “Very good, madam,” Willcox said as he took her bonnet and shawl that she handed to him one after the other.

  She walked up the white marble staircase, along the second-floor gallery, and up to her bedroom on the third floor. Around her, servants busied themselves with last-minute preparations. They bobbed and bowed as she passed, and she gave a cursory nod, but both she and they were glad to be out of each other’s sight.

  Once inside her bedroom, she shut the door and leaned against it with her eyes closed for a few seconds. When she opened them, she saw that Stott, her lady’s maid, had laid out her gown for the night. It was the pale blue satin one with the short sleeves and the heart-shaped neckline. She’d loved it when she had it made that spring, but right now the thing looked tedious. She wanted her nightgown, a book, and her chocolate.

  Stott would be here shortly to help her dress. While she waited, Isobel went to her walnut vanity table, sat down on the plush stool with its rose-colored cushioning, and looked at herself in the mirror.

  Was it possible she’d aged years in just a few short hours? Her skin was sallow, and there were dark shadows under her brown eyes. At twenty-five, she was far too young to be this weary.

  “Oh, Andrew,” she said to her reflection. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed to keep your family’s legacy alive. Forgive me.”