Page 14 of Christmas Wore Plaid

Clara swept smooth the folds in her skirts. Kate brought a tea service to her side, pouring her a steaming cup and dropping in the lump of sugar and the splash of milk Clara requested. She leaned toward Emerson over the side table between them with her babe upon her knee.

“Rumor has it—”

Emerson closed her eyes to stave off rolling them. She’d often pondered what the two of them had ever had in common, besides her aunt and Clara’s mother having been fond friends. By default, she and Clara had grown up side by side playing dolls in each other’s gardens. A sisterhood had naturally forged between them.

“—that his father was so far in debt, that Brady nearly lost the manor. Of course, if he would simply evict his tenants, his strife would resolve.”

“Why on earth would he evict his tenants? How cruel, and for what purpose?” Emerson gasped, pushing her needle as Clara bounced her babe and sipped her tea.

“The poor have come south for decades as they’re kicked off their lands. Surely you haven’t forgotten?” Clara said.

“Of course I haven’t, but just because other lords are evicting their farmers doesn’t make it any better. What are the peasants to do?”

Clara smirked. “You’ve always been too soft for the most unfortunate.” She gestured to the orphan nestled into the rich brocade of the settee. “My case in point. You’ll need your maid to launder that blanket now.”

As if Emerson didn’t plan to launder it already. The child was filthier than a chimney sweep. Everything she was wearing would need to be laundered and tossed into the rag bin.

“Why shouldn’t I show kindness to others? My family took me in and reared me well after my mother died in labor with me and my father…” No one in her family had told her how her father had died, though she suspected he’d taken his life in grief, given the descriptions she’d heard of his heartbreak. Such a sin had never made it to public record, and when she’d dared to ask her aunt about it once, Bess had refused to answer. “Never once did any of them dismiss me to an orphanage or goodness, the streets, like this waif. It’s my duty to pay such a kindness onward in any way that I can. Especially at Christmastide.”

“At the expense of your own security? Make no mistake, the Highland peasants keep trickling in, looking for employ, but ending up in the streets, riddling them with crime and more poverty. There’re no jobs, and we increasingly have to support them as they beg for alms. You’ll impoverish yourself if you continue to give so much, for they just keep coming. You’ve lived quite a sheltered life in Oxford.”

“You mock me?” Emerson asked.

Clara softened with sincerity. “Of course not. But there’s too much need here, and not enough money.”

“Not enough money? I’d say you and I live quite well.”

“You know what I mean. Should we bankrupt ourselves sacrificing our families’ coffers? Not everyone with means is as wealthy as you are, my friend. Why, they’re even sending tenants to the Americas, since more and more land here is deemed better for grazing.”

“Who’s sending away their tenants?”

“All the landowners and tracts controlled by the crown. Well, all except Brady. He’d rather die of impoverishment to help the less fortunate.”

Emerson dropped her needlepoint once more and frowned.

Clara’s mouth turned up into a conspiratorial smile. “So he did crawl back under your skin.”

Aye. Aye, he had. And he’d left a million questions about his anger, his hardness, and his letters—and hers—in his wake. But she couldn’t fathom that his coat of thorns had thoroughly vanquished the good soul who had once given sweet kisses at a starry-eyed lass’s window and spoken of adventure.

“He used to be so different.”

“True, and I suppose I’m too hard on him. Life did deal him a hand of blanks, and I will say, he never auditioned for another play after his Capulet took ill.”

A blush raged across Emerson’s cheeks as Clara gave her that conspiratorial smile again. She had recalled so many a time how he had feigned Romeo at her window. One would never think something so soft about him now if they met him, for even she was convinced of his severity. At least she had an inkling now why his edges were so serrated.

“A shame such a hard time has befallen him,” Emerson said.

“To be fair, he’s brought much of it on himself, too, stretching his funds so thin. If he would simply send off his tenants instead of taking in more, and more, and more…”

“Taking in more?”

Clara nodded and laughed as if even she disbelieved it. “He’s given as many as he can a home, and reduced all his staff’s pay to nearly nothing since he’s lowered all the rents. He’s sold everything of value to pay his debts and barely break even. I fear one of these years, his entire estate will take on water and that will be that. And he’ll be a titled pauper whose property reverts to the crown with nothing to show for his efforts.”

Emerson stared back through the front window where she had seen Brady’s back as he rode out of town. He had said what he’d said in the churchyard, and goodness, but Emerson had thought him callous when in fact, he knew more about charity than the rest of the local peerage.

“I fear I’ve misjudged him,” she finally muttered.

Clara, seemingly unhearing, continued. “A good thing he decided not to pursue another courtship. Can you imagine being a wife tethered to that sinking ship?”