Chapter 1

Mr. Thomas Totton bade his employer a cordial goodnight and left the office. It was only a ten-minute walk back to his house in Mare Street, but it was dark, the path icy, and the streetlights were not yet operational in his part of town. He passed the new railway station that his employer, Mr. Elijah Hepworth, had brought to Millcastle with the sheer strength of his will. It was currently deserted, the last train had left on the half hour, and the next wasn’t expected until morning.

He knew far more about the workings of the railway station, and the hotel next to it than anyone in Millcastle, apart from Mr. Hepworth, and was quietly proud of what they’d achieved. Goods from Millcastle could now travel to new destinations, opening up the factory markets and increasing profitability.

He turned left at the corner after the Station Hotel and walked down the cobbled pathway between the two rows of new red brick houses he’d helped design with Mr. Hepworth’s architect. The detached houses were for the new rising middle class–mill managers, overseers, station masters, and the professional gentlemen of Millcastle. Each had three stories and a cellar, four large bedrooms, servants quarters at the top, and an inside water closet. Thomas thought they were very fine and had been delighted when his employer had offered him the opportunity to buy one at a reduced rate.

Thomas paused to open the back gate and entered the neat garden at the rear of his property. The garden was laid to grass with wide flower borders on two sides. Having never owned a garden before, he hadn’t had much time to think of what to do with it. He was considering consulting with the municipal authority who had recently laid out the town park. He’d never had much time for flowers in his life, but he was impressed by the colorful displays.

There was a light on in his kitchen window and he stopped to stare at the figure illuminated within.

He didn’t need a live-in housekeeper.

He shouldn’t have offered her the position, but he didn’t regret it.

She’d come to him without references or experience, yet he’d allowed her to stay, and she’d proved her worth.

And yet… he knew nothing about her apart from the name she’d given him—Elinor Smith—and even that might not be real.

It was lucky he worked so hard and had no time for friends because he was fairly certain they would’ve warned him off hiring a woman like her. He wasn’t even sure if she deserved to be called Mrs., because she’d never mentioned a spouse living or dead. At least the title gave her the veneer of respectability they both needed to maintain their relative positions in society and for her to manage his house.

Despite all her efforts to hide it, she was beautiful in a way that made men stop and stare. Her hair was the darkest chocolate brown and her eyes the color of violets. Not that he’d noticed these things when he’d first encountered her alone and desperate at the notorious George and Dragon coaching inn in the center of town.

He still wasn’t sure what instinct had made him stop when she’d called out to him, but he had paused to listen to her tale of woe, and, incredibly, he’d believed every word of it.

She’d come to Millcastle to work as a governess only to find that the position was not as she’d imagined, and that the letter writer was an elderly man with no children simply wishing to entrap her within his house and use her as he wished. When he’d met her off the coach, instinct had told her he wasn’t being truthful. She’d asked about his children and he’d become angry and defensive seemingly unable to remember the names he’d fabricated in his letter. He’d tried to force her to get into his carriage, and she’d made a scene, racing toward the entrance of the inn where she’d run straight into—him.

Thomas shivered as the first faint hint of snow brushed his cheek. He looked up at the silent, falling flakes that would soon mask the scars of the growing industrial town he’d helped create. Not that he wasn’t proud of what he’d achieved. He’d grown up with nothing and now had an excellent job, a fine house to live in, and—Mrs. Smith.

He shook off his foolish thoughts and marched up to the back door, wiped his feet on the mat and stepped inside. There was no sign of his housekeeper, but the fragrant smell of beef stew perfumed the air and the house was warm around him. These days he never had to think about rationing coal or light, which was a blessing.

He took off his boots and set them in the scullery along with his coat and hat. When he entered the kitchen, she was there with a warm towel in her hands and a welcoming smile.

“Good evening, Mr. Totton.”

“Mrs. Smith.” He inclined his head.

“Was it starting to snow?” she asked as she handed him the towel. “The butcher told me he could smell it in the air, but I didn’t quite believe him.”

“Yes, but it’s not really settled yet.” He washed his hands in the bowl of warm water she’d left for him in the sink and dried them with the towel. “But it looks like it will.”

“A white Christmas,” she said, her expression pensive. “When I was a child, I expected every Christmas to have snow and was rather annoyed when it didn’t happen. I remember getting quite cross with my papa when he refused to take me ice skating because the lake wasn’t properly frozen over.”

Thomas imagined Mrs. Smith as a child and wondered how any parent could’ve denied her anything. On the very rare occasions when she shared anything about her childhood, he had the impression that it had been a happy one. What had happened to overset that? He’d never had the courage to ask.

He set the towel down. “I’ll eat in the kitchen tonight, if that’s acceptable to you, Mrs. Smith. There’s no point wasting money to set a fire in the dining room just for me.”

In truth, the house was far too large for a man without a family. He occupied the main bedroom, Mrs. Smith had a room on the floor above, and, as there was no other live-in help, the rest of the rooms remained unoccupied.

“As you wish, Mr. Totton.” She turned toward the stove. “I just need to check my dumplings.”

While she had her back to him, Thomas was able to study her at his leisure. Her dark hair was braided and secured at the nape of her neck in a neat bun. She wore one of the two day-dresses she owned in a serviceable brown and had a large work apron tied around her waist. When she served in the dining room on the rare occasion he had guests, she wore a white apron and added a lace collar to the round neck of her dress.

After stirring the pot, she laid the table and gestured for Thomas to sit down.

“Thank you.” He took his usual seat. “It was a very busy day at work.”

“Mr. Hepworth expects a lot of you.” Mrs. Smith filled a jug of water from the pump and set in on the table along with two glasses. She also put the tea pot down and poured him a cup.

“He pays me well enough to demand the best,” Thomas said as he stirred in some sugar and drank the strong brew down in one gulp. “Although, some days I do wonder how I manage to get everything done.”

“Everyone speaks very highly of you, Mr. Totton, ” Mrs. Smith said.

“That is very kind of you to say so, ma’am, although I doubt all of them truly like me. I represent Mr. Hepworth, and he remains a divisive figure in this town. Not everyone appreciates the railway or the navvies who built it.”

“Then they are fools because the railway brings prosperity.” She refiled his cup and went over to the stove to get the cast iron pot containing the stew. “It also allows the common man to travel further than ever before. Who would not appreciate that?”

“Have you been on the train, Mrs. Smith?” Mr. Totton inquired.

“Not yet, but I intend to. I’d like to see the sea again.” She took the lid off the pot and a cloud of steam rose over the rounded dumplings. “Shall I serve you your dinner, sir, or would you rather help yourself?”

“You may do it.” He watched her ladle a hearty portion onto his plate. “But make sure you leave enough for yourself.”

She fetched the bread, which he knew she made herself, and a slab of golden butter from the local dairy. He waited until she had settled back at the table before he spoke again.

“If you wish to take leave over Christmas, Mrs. Smith, you are more than welcome to do so.”

She looked directly at him. “You are planning on going away yourself?”

“No, but it just occurred to me that you haven’t taken a single day off since you got here over a year ago, and that you are due a holiday.” He paused. “Perhaps you could take that trip on the train to the coast.”

“That is very kind of you, but I’d rather stay here.” She looked down at her plate. “I have no one to go with or to visit.”

“You have no family at all?” Thomas asked.

“None that would wish to acknowledge me.” Her quick smile spoke of past tensions.

Thomas chewed a chunk of beef as he framed his next question. “You are estranged from your kin?”

“Yes.”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone would be so cruel as to cast a woman such as yourself adrift, Mrs. Smith.”

“But you don’t know what I’ve done, Mr. Totton. I could have threatened to murder the lot of them.”

He met her gaze. “I doubt it, ma’am.”

“There are far worse things than murder,” she said quietly. “Things that leave wounds that can never heal.”

“I don’t believe that Mrs. Smith. Time and distance have a way of healing all wounds.”

“You never speak of your own family, sir.”

He knew she was deliberately changing the subject, but it had been a long, trying day, he was tired, and suddenly all he wished to do was tell the truth.

“My wife and child died in a house fire in Leeds.”

Mrs. Smith’s sharply indrawn breath was audible. “How… terrible.”

“It’s one of the reasons why I was willing to follow Mr. Hepworth on his travels up and down the country to build new railways. I hated going home to the silence.” He looked around the kitchen. “This is the first house I’ve ever owned.”

He almost started as Mrs. Smith reached over and patted his hand. To his knowledge, it was the first time she’d touched him in public. She withdrew her fingers before he could move his own.

“There is no need for sympathy, ma’am, it was ten years ago, and, as I said, time is a great healer.” He swallowed hard. “In truth, I can barely remember what my wife and bairn looked like anymore.”

Her continued silence made him feel like an emotional fool. He poured himself more tea. “If neither of us have plans to leave Millcastle for yuletide perhaps you might care to accompany me to Mr. Hepworth’s for Christmas day? Mrs. Hepworth invited us both and it would save you having to cook.”

She was slow to reply. “I’m sure they invited you, sir, but me? I’m hardly of the right class.”

“You’re probably better bred than the lot of us,” Thomas said bluntly. “You’ll fit right in.” He met her worried gaze. “In fact, I’d be glad if you did come with me. I always have to partner some dotty old aunt who doesn’t know quite what to make of me.”

“I’ll come if you want me to,” Mrs. Smith said.

“Good.” He smiled at her and applied himself to his dinner. “Is there any pudding?”