A Christmas in Manchester Read online

  A CHRISTMAS IN MANCHESTER

  CALLIE HUTTON

  Copyright © 2022 by Callie Hutton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Miss Evelyn Allen has led a quiet life in Worcestershire all her twenty-one years as the devoted daughter of Pastor Joshua Allen and his wife. She always assumed she’d wed one day since her siblings had all done so, but no man had ever appealed to her in a way that she felt she could look across the breakfast table at him forever.

  * * *

  Until he came into her life…

  * * *

  The Duke of Manchester never expected to be left robbed and bleeding in the road miles from home. He knew his chances of survival were practically nil until an angel driving an old wooden wagon dragged him into her house where she and her mother nursed him back to health.

  * * *

  Even though she knows him for a lord by his manners and clothing, Eve has no idea that the man she is falling in love with is a Duke. A man so far above her she shouldn’t even be speaking with him.

  * * *

  To him, their stations matter not, but can he convince her that she is all he wants for Christmas?

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  CHAPTER 1

  Worcestershire, England

  October 1831

  “If you continue to plod along at this pace, Peony, we’re never going to reach home.” Evelyn Allen, known as Eve to family and friends, snapped the reins on the ancient horse pulling the family wagon along the road from the outskirts of the village to her home.

  It had been a long day of gathering extra crops from the farms in the county to be delivered to the poor families in the village. Far too many villagers did not have enough food or clothes for their children. It was Eve’s job once a month to gather whatever the farmers could spare and bring it to her papa’s church to be distributed to the needy, along with any unwanted clothing she managed to collect.

  Mama held a sewing circle every week when the ladies sewed new blankets and knitted baby clothes. Evelyn loved the look of gratitude on the young mothers’ faces when they were handed the warm blankets and knitted booties and caps for their little ones. Most of them had hard working husbands, but with so many children, it was difficult to make ends meet.

  Her shoulders ached from hours of holding the reins, and her growling stomach reminded her it was well past dinner time. She only had about another two miles to go, but with Peony plodding along, as she was wont to do near the end of the day, Eve might be forced to drag the animal home.

  The horse came to an abrupt stop and nickered, tossing her head. “What?” Evelyn rose to peer over the animal’s head to see a man, smack in the middle of the path, on his knees, waving his arm.

  “Oh, heavens.” She tied the reins around the dash and climbed down. The man grasped his shoulder and panted heavily as she approached him. Briefly, she considered that perhaps she should have brought her pistol from underneath the wagon seat, since highwaymen had been known to prowl the area. This man could very well be a decoy of sorts. “Are you well, my lord?”

  He shook his head. “Shot.”

  He’d been shot? It was then she noticed the blood oozing between his fingers where he had them plastered against his dark jacket. “Robbed and shot.” He barely got the words out.

  She’d never seen him before, but given his clothing and demeanor, he was more than likely nobility. Her favorite type of people to dislike. Even kneeling in the dirt, bleeding, he had an air about him that smacked of privilege. However, her Christian sense of duty to her fellow man pushed that to the back of her mind.

  “Can you stand, my lord? I can help you into my wagon and bring you home. Mama is good with healing, and I am no more than a mile or so from my house.”

  Sweat beading his forehead, he grimaced and gave her a curt nod. She reached under his arm on the good side and helped him to his feet. It was auspicious that he had the ability to rise, because given his size and muscular form, she never could have lifted him. He slung his arm around her shoulders, and leaned heavily as they made their way back to the wagon.

  “Did you hurt your leg, also?” He limped as they moved toward the vehicle.

  “Yes.” He winced. “Tried to fight them off, but once they shot me, I was done for.”

  It took some maneuvering, but with as much help as she could provide, he settled into the back of the wagon, along with all the vegetables. Despite those ignominious accommodations, it had been easier to position him there, than to attempt hauling him all the way up onto the driving seat. She began a slight apology, but he waved her away, wincing with every move. “Please don’t concern yourself, Miss. I am grateful to be out of the road.”

  With renewed purpose to reach home, Eve snapped the reins, and egged the animal on, hoping his wound was not serious enough to cause the man to expire right there in her wagon. By the time they reached the cottage, he had passed out. Eve hurried into the tidy house that had been home to her family since before she’d been born.

  “Mama, Papa. I need your help.” She dashed through the back door, past the kitchen, taking a moment to sniff whatever it was Mama had cooked for dinner, newly aware of how hungry she was.

  Darting down the corridor, she checked each room, until Mama met her at the bottom of the stairs and Papa stepped out of his study, his spectacles low on his nose. “Whatever is the problem, daughter?”

  “There is a gentleman in my wagon.” She stopped to take in air. “He has been shot. I found him on the road home.”

  All three quickly made their way out the back door to the wagon. “Is he dead?” Mother sucked in a breath and held her hand to her chest as she viewed the man’s pale face.

  “No, Mama. I think he has just passed out. He said he was shot in the shoulder by highwaymen.”

  “Reverend, we need to get him inside so I can see to his wound.” Mama looked the gentleman up and down. “He is much too large to move him upstairs. We must use the tiny bedroom at the back, next to the kitchen.” She looked again at their patient. “I hope the bed is long enough. He is truly a large man.”

  Although he remained unconscious, with Papa on one side, and Eve on the other, they managed to drag him into the house and deposit him on the bed in the mostly unused bedroom.

  Mama gently rolled the man onto his side and viewed his back. “Eve, fetch me a pan of hot water, some clean cloths, my long knife, and bullet extractor. There is no hole at the back of his jacket, so there is a good chance the bullet is still embedded in him.”

  Once Eve brought the supplies to her mama, Papa touched her on the shoulder. “I am sorry, my dear, but Mama and I must undress the gentleman to get to his wound. You will need to wait outside until we are finished.”

  “I could hold the candle.” She had attended other patients Mama had dealt with, but she had never been present when a young man had been a victim. It embarrassed her to know how much s
he would have enjoyed seeing that broad chest uncovered.

  She would say a few extra prayers at bedtime this night.

  Papa shook his head, and pointed to the door. Although she was not surprised at his words, it still annoyed her, since even though she was an unmarried miss, there wasn’t anything untoward about a man’s chest. But then, again, she would have no way of knowing that since, as the local rector’s daughter, her upbringing had been scrupulous. She and her elder sister, Angeline, had been well supervised, and reminded endlessly, that as representatives of their papa, they must always conduct themselves in a proper and appropriate manner, lest any aspersion be cast on their reputations.

  Angeline was now happily married to a watchmaker, residing in London, and the mother of two lively boys. Evelyn loved her nephews and wished she could spend more time with them, which wasn’t possible, given their distance. Angeline’s husband, Mr. Saxon, was a pleasant man, twelve or so years older than her sister. They seemed happy, but Evelyn wanted so much more when she married. From the time she was a little girl, she dreamed of finding a man with whom she would share undying love. She often chastised herself for her foolishness, but the dream had never faded.

  To occupy herself while her parents worked on the gentleman’s injuries, she wandered to the kitchen and dished up a bowl of stew bubbling over the fire. She sliced a wide chunk of freshly made bread and sat at the comfortable wooden table to enjoy her meal.

  As she ate, she considered what she wanted in a husband. So far, she had not found it in any of the young men in her village. There were several who had asked permission to pay her court, but after one or two outings, she’d done what was necessary to discourage them.

  Thanks to her papa, Eve was a smart, well-educated woman, since he felt both girls and boys should receive proper schooling. Eve believed if she married a man who only conversed about grain prices and the local weather, she would shrivel up inside and die.

  She had read all the books in Papa’s library, and was always eager to find something new. She made occasional visits to the small bookstore in the village, and once a year Papa took her to London to visit Angeline, and while they were there, they stopped at the bookstore where she was permitted to purchase one book. The pages of most of her books were worn thin from many readings.

  The sound of her parents’ low murmurs was interrupted by a loud shout, followed by a low groan, obviously coming from their patient. Hopefully Mama had extracted the bullet, and the poor man could rest now.

  The warm room, her full belly, and the glass of ale she’d drank with her dinner all worked to make it difficult to keep her eyes open. She wanted to make sure she was here when Mama was finished, so she could attend the man. For now, however, she laid her cheek on her folded hands, and closed her eyes.

  Only for a minute.

  Adam, the Duke of Manchester, let out a scream as the pain in his shoulder erupted into body-burning agony. He hoped the sucking sound he’d heard was the removal of the bullet. Sweat poured down his face as the woman hovering over him, said, “We got it, Papa.”

  He frowned. The woman’s voice was different, deeper, and older than the woman who’d found him on the road and dragged him to her wagon. She’d been a pretty little thing, something he’d noticed even though he was fighting unconsciousness and excruciating pain at the time. He opened his eyes, and in the dim light focused on an older woman leaning over him. In some way, she resembled how he remembered the girl. Her mother, perhaps?

  An older man held a candle up and looked at him. “Now you lie still, my lord. Mama will sew you up, and you’ll be able to rest. She’s done this many times before.” The man had a pleasant, soothing face, which helped to calm him.

  Adam had no idea where he was. From what he remembered, he’d been returning home to his London townhouse after negotiating marriage contracts with his soon-to-be bride’s father, Lord Fenster, when he’d been accosted by highwaymen. He’d fought as best he could, but there were simply too many of them, and after one shot to his shoulder, he was down. The men took everything on him, his money pouch, timepiece, and even the ring his mother had removed from her husband’s hand before he’d been buried. After slapping his horse, Dionysius, the highwaymen all took off, leaving him to bleed to death on the road.

  Then the angel happened by. At least that was how he remembered her. Pale, creamy skin, with a light dusting of freckles over her nose, silky light brown hair tucked up into a straw bonnet, and hazel eyes that viewed him with concern and caring. So incredibly different from how women normally viewed him. Power and title. Avarice and desire. Not passion for him as a person, but for what he could do for them.

  Inside the bedroom and out.

  At nine and twenty he had finally reconciled himself to having a marriage befitting his station. He’d already dismissed all the women his mother had presented to him, save Lady Ann Benson, who he would make an offer for once the contracts were signed.

  For years, he’d been subjected to one giggling, conniving, speculating debutante after another, along with their scheming mamas. The lonesome widows and bored matrons eyed him with a different sort of speculation, but he’d always depended on a mistress for his needs. No other men’s wives, no messy entanglements, and no tears and hysteria when he gave them their final piece of jewelry and moved on.

  On the other hand, as far as prospective brides went, he’d found Lady Ann at least tolerable. She was sweet, quiet, and skilled in manners, dancing, music, and would make an excellent duchess. That she didn’t stir his blood was a concern, but he would not find it a chore to bed her often enough to secure heirs.

  So went the life of the nobility.

  “My lord, if I can just move you a bit, now that the sewing is done, I need to bind your wound.” The older woman put some type of salve on a clean piece of fabric, that she gently placed against the wound, and then wrapped it around his chest, her husband shifting him slightly to assist her.

  Once they finished, the man drew up a sheet to cover his chest. “My daughter will be wanting to check on you, and bring you some broth. She’s a maiden, so you must remain covered.”

  “I apologize for my lack of manners. May I ask who you are? I am very grateful to your daughter, and both of you, for taking care of me.”

  “It is what is expected, my lord.” The man smoothed out the sheet. “I am Reverend Joshua Allen, rector of Trinity Church here in this village in Worcestershire. This is my wife, Mrs. Allen, and our daughter, Miss Eve Allen is the one who brought you here.”

  Despite his pain, he grinned. Adam and Eve? He shook his head. No, it meant nothing. He did not believe in fate.

  They obviously recognized him as a peer since they continued to address him as ‘my lord’. He had no desire to correct them, and have them fawning all over him if they knew he was a duke. Instead, he said, “I am Lord Manchester. I was traveling to my townhouse in London when I was set upon by highwaymen.”

  Rarely did residents of small villages travel more than twenty miles from their home their entire lives and had very little reason to study Debrett’s Peerage. With that in mind, there was no more than a slight chance these good people would recognize him as the Duke of Manchester.

  “I will send my daughter in now to tend to you, my lord.”

  The couple gathered up bloody cloths, bowls, and instruments Mrs. Allen had used to remove the bullet. Adam watched them leave, wishing he could sleep to alleviate the pain. No sooner had he closed his eyes than the door opened again and the angel stepped through.

  She carried a candle, a bowl, and tucked under her arm, a small brown bottle. Even though she offered no smile as she approached him, he enjoyed watching her, the slight blush to her cheeks, the way she raised her chin. “Good evening, my lord. I hope now that the worst is over, you might take a bit of broth? I also have some laudanum to help with the pain.” Despite the pleasant words, her eyes were cool.

  He’d never been in a position like this, lying in a bed with a l
ovely woman hovering over him, and unable to pull her down, remove her clothing, and kiss every inch of her body. Of course, in addition to excruciating pain and him being almost betrothed, she was the daughter of the Reverend Allen. Not someone to dally with, even if she wasn’t a lady of his class.

  “I will try the broth, but I’m not too sure of the laudanum. I’ve known those who’ve become addicted to it.”

  She finally offered a smile, changing her face from pretty to beautiful. “I do not think you need to concern yourself with addiction, my lord. Mama would never allow that to happen. She is quite knowledgeable in the dangers of addiction.” Two dimples adorned the sides of her mouth.

  He couldn’t help but smile back at her sincerity. She was truly a charming, endearing young woman. As much as he would love to banter with her, what he needed more than anything was sleep, to escape. Seeming to sense his change in demeanor, she became all business and sat in a chair alongside the bed and spooned some of the broth into his mouth.

  They didn’t talk as she fed him. He hated being so helpless, but there was nothing to be done. He watched every nuance of her face and body as she went about her work. Miss Allen was so open, so easy to read. She did not flirt, tease, or in any way make him believe she was interested in anything except feeding him.