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Samantha was afraid he was about to take her sister to task for a lack of respect. Grace tended to speak without forethought, but she didn’t have a mean bone in her body. Samantha breathed a sigh of relief when her mother reappeared and announced that dinner was about to be served.
MEAGER FARE
When the metallic rumble of the dinner gong resounded from the foyer, Parker Cullen rose from his uncomfortable armchair in front of the empty grate and dutifully took his place at his uncle’s dining room table. He knew from previous experience that the housekeeper-cum-cook didn’t like to be kept waiting, especially on Christmas Day. She had a family of her own to take care of, as she’d waspishly reminded them every Christmas for the past three years.
“So, here we are again,” Parker said jovially as Mrs. Finch snapped his folded napkin and dropped it on his lap. “Seems like only yesterday we were celebrating last Christmas.”
Judson eyed him. “But it has been a full year since.”
Parker inhaled, reminding himself he should, by now, be used to the fact his uncle took everything literally. Par for the course for an engineer, he supposed. Guilt niggled. It was Christmas, after all, and Judson had earned a reputation as one of England’s foremost bridge builders.
Mrs. Finch doled out a slice of roasted turkey, two Brussels sprouts, a carrot, and two over-roasted potatoes on each plate. Parker had come to recognize the dollop of gray matter as stuffing. As in past years, there was barely enough food to feed a child, never mind a man with a healthy appetite like Parker. His reed-thin uncle apparently thought everyone ate as little as he did. He considered gluttony a great sin.
Aware the parsimonious Judson eschewed such frivolities as Christmas crackers, Parker assumed the housekeeper was responsible for the brightly decorated one sitting by his plate. He pulled both ends, extracted his paper hat and nestled it atop his head. “Voilà,” he announced, unrolling the slip of paper with the riddle tucked inside. Since Judson had no sense of humor, posing the riddle would be a waste of time, but he had to try to bring levity to the meager feast. “What beast has six feet, four ears, two mouths, two foreheads?”
His uncle stared at him as if he’d grown horns.
“A horse and rider,” Parker explained with a chuckle. “Get it?”
“Six feet, you say?”
Parker wondered again how his uncle had ever managed to design some of the most famous bridges in England. His latest project, the new Severn River Railway Bridge was one of the longest ever constructed.
When the housekeeper left, Judson stared at his plate. Parker waited, knowing what would come next.
“For what we are about to receive,” his uncle intoned. “May the Lord make us truly thankful.”
“Amen,” Parker intoned, picking up his knife and fork. Praying was something he hadn’t done since he was a boy, and then only because his Irish parents forced him to his knees. Most of his childhood prayers had revolved around begging for sober parents. His father’s brother wasn’t a drunkard, but Christian charity wasn’t something Judson was known for.
Parker had learned there was no point waiting for his uncle to tuck in. He speared a sprout and braced himself. He loved the little vegetables but not when they were nigh on raw in the center. His appetite left him as soon as he tried to bite into it.
He clenched his jaw, feeling wretched. He was probably the only twenty-five-year-old man in the whole of Gloucestershire eating Christmas dinner with a miserly uncle. Panic constricted his throat at the prospect he’d be sitting in the exact same place years from now watching his uncle move food around on his plate. Judson and Parker, two old eccentric codgers, confirmed bachelors, of course.
He tamped down a lunatic urge to throw his fork at Judson and declare his refusal to lose hope that he’d one day find a loving wife who’d bear his children. There’d be Christmases filled with joy and laughter. Instead, he asked, “So, is the Severn River Bridge open now?”
“Officially, no,” Judson replied, pouring gravy onto the food he had no intention of eating. “Though we’ve sent a few engines across. Just to make sure the rails and switches are functioning properly.”
“When’s the official opening?”
“28th.”
Parker suspected he’d need an invitation to attend, but the 28th was only four short days away. “I haven’t been able to witness any of your other official openings,” Parker said, assuming Judson thought he wasn’t interested in seeing his grandest and much-publicized project. “Too far away, but this one is practically in our back yard.”
“You’ll need an invitation, unless you take the first public train across to Wales.”
Parker had no wish to end up in Wales and have to find his way back. Also, it was unlikely Judson would pay his train fare. “No. Can you get me a seat in the grandstand?”
“Check with my secretary.”
Parker had read all about the marvelous engineering advancements used in the construction of the new bridge, but the silence, filled only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, was getting on his nerves. The turkey was harder to cut than shoe leather and the burned potatoes were as hard as rocks. He chuckled inwardly when an errant thought occurred that the Brussels sprouts might have brought the Crimean War to an end much sooner. If the British troops had been provided with better ammunition…
Having made a mental note to make sure his future wife hired a good cook, he gripped his fork, berating himself. His height and bearing, coupled with reasonably attractive features, appealed to women—until they noticed his pronounced limp.
Despite grim predictions by more than one doctor that his leg would have to be removed, he’d kept the limb after being wounded serving in the police force. He’d been instrumental in capturing a would-be assassin when Her Majesty visited Bristol, but not before the lunatic had plunged a rusted bayonet into his thigh. Victoria had awarded him a medal, but the decoration and royal gratitude didn’t warm his bed at night. Deemed unfit for regular duty, he’d been shipped off to Aust and assigned to administrative work ever since.
He took a sip of water, wishing his uncle would, for once, loosen his purse strings and splurge on a bottle of good wine.
Deciding he was getting maudlin, he scraped the uneaten portion of his meal to the side of the plate with his knife, placed his utensils correctly lest his uncle remind him and untwisted the paper of the bonbon from his cracker. It would fill a gap until the plum pudding and mince tarts arrived. “Tell me about this bridge,” he said.
