The Christmas Countess. Adrienne Basso

Trying times, indeed.”

      “There are many who carry burdens far greater than my own,” Rebecca answered. “Besides, I shall be fine now that Daniel has arrived.” Rebecca wiped her nose, then stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of her black mourning gown. “I will miss you dreadfully, of course, and am sad to say farewell to so many of the kind and generous members of our parish. Still, I know how lucky I am to have a brother willing to take care of me. You need not worry so, Mrs. Maxwell.”

      The older woman clucked her tongue and Rebecca could tell she wasn’t convinced. The housekeeper had been employed by the family for the past four years and during that time Rebecca’s older brother, Daniel, had been out of the country. His letters had been infrequent, conversation about his activities and the life he had built for himself away from the family home limited.

      Suspicious by nature of most men, especially those who traveled to foreign lands to make their fortune, Mrs. Maxwell clearly did not know what to make of Daniel Tremaine, whom she had met when he arrived from the American Colonies to help settle Vicar Tremaine’s very modest estate.

      “I only hope the new vicar they have assigned here will be half the gentleman your father was to this parish,” Mrs. Maxwell said with a worried frown. “Have you heard anything about him, perchance?”

      “Not a word,” Rebecca admitted, mentally echoing the housekeeper’s concerns. Yet she refrained from voicing any doubts; the housekeeper was already worried about keeping her position once the new family arrived. “I’m sure he will be a great asset to the community.”

      “We’ll just have to see, now won’t we?” the housekeeper mumbled.

      “Yes.” Rebecca gave the older woman what she hoped was an encouraging smile, telling herself she would stay in touch and make certain Mrs. Maxwell was favorably situated. If not, she would do all that she could to ensure a suitable position was found for her.

      “I’d best continue packing Father’s personal books and papers,” Rebecca added. “I know you will want to give this room a thorough cleaning before the new residents arrive next week.”

      “I do, but it can wait until tomorrow. You must not work too hard or else you’ll catch a chill. Your brother can take care of some of these things.”

      Rebecca shook her head. “Daniel is handling other business. And truly, I don’t mind.”

      The housekeeper looked at her dubiously. “Well now, I suppose you know best. But don’t overdo.”

      With that final admonishment, Mrs. Maxwell left. Rebecca heaved a weary sigh and sank back against the cushions of the settee. For a moment she was tempted to close her eyes and let the exhaustion of her emotions drift away. But fear held her back. If she fell asleep again, she might start dreaming.

      Years ago, right after it happened, the dreams were a nightly occurrence that haunted her relentlessly. Gradually, blessedly, over time they had become less regular. Yet they still occurred, always more vivid in the month of August, the anniversary of the event.

      But it was not August, it was late November. Perhaps the trauma of her father’s death had brought on the dream? Though it had been three months since his passing, she still grieved her loss. All her losses.

      Rebecca’s breath hitched as another sob threatened. For six years the essence of the dream had remained constant, yet this time, for the first time, she had clearly seen the baby. So small, so delicate, so innocent, so very much alive.

      Rebecca took a long, shuddering breath. While the dream might have changed, the emotions it evoked remained precisely the same; pain, regret and an almost unbearable sadness.

      Rebecca felt those emotions start to crowd in and she abruptly stood. Activity was the best way to clear her mind. Bustling with purpose she practically sprinted across the room, attacking the pile of books with a vengeance. Once they were sorted, she focused her attention on the desk.

      There was a pile of church documents, along with a diary of notes her father had made over the years discussing the needs of various families in the parish. Those would be left for the new vicar. The rest were copies of his favorite sermons, personal papers and a small prayer book that he had always carried with him.

      Feeling too tired and edgy to give the papers a thorough look, Rebecca placed them in a crate. She and Daniel could review them at a later time and determine if there was anything they wished to save.

      She made a final inspection of the desk drawers and to her surprise found, wedged in the very back of the bottom drawer, a packet of letters neatly tied with a white satin ribbon. Curious, Rebecca removed the top one, opened it and began to read.

      My dearest Jacob. A poignant smile formed on her lips as she recognized her mother’s distinct handwriting. She turned the letter over, checking the date in the corner. May 6, 1811. Her smile broadened. The note had been written before her parents had married, most likely while they had been courting. She had found their love letters.

      The pile was thick. ’Twas a testament indeed to the strong bond of love and devotion her parents had shared throughout their marriage that her father had kept these special missives all this time.

      Feeling like a voyeur, Rebecca slipped the letter back inside the ribbon and placed the bundle to the side of the desk. They were too private to read, yet she could not leave them behind. She would ask Daniel’s opinion on what to do with them. She turned to place the prayer book inside the nearest crate, shifted too quickly and knocked her hip against the desk.

      The letters tumbled to the floor and the ribbon came loose, releasing the notes and scattering them all about the carpet.

      “Oh, bother,” she muttered.

      Rubbing the sore spot on her hip, Rebecca knelt. Her arms stretched wide, she gathered the letters together. Yet as she started stacking them in a neat pile, she noted the handwriting on one was distinctly different and clearly not her mother’s hand.

      Her brow raised. Gracious. Had there been someone special in her father’s life before he met and married her mother? It seemed ridiculous, yet life had taught her that only a very foolish or naive individual believed that all was always as it appeared. Rebecca opened the note and began reading.

      I received your latest letter and read it with a feeling best described as relief, pleased to discover that you and Meredith are finally being sensible about this grave matter. Giving Rebecca’s child to the Earl and Countess of Hampton to raise as their own is the only possible recourse, the only road to salvation for our family. ’Tis the only way we will be saved from certain disgrace and ruin, the only way to save your reputation and our family’s honor. A parish will forgive a beloved vicar much, but the bastard grandchild of a man of God is not something that would ever be tolerated or accepted. Nor should it be.

      Rebecca’s child? Bastard grandchild? Given to the Earl and Countess of Hampton to raise? Rebecca gasped for air. Her lungs felt tight, her chest heavy. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The child had been given to another? How could this be? Surely there must be some mistake? The babe she had carried within her body for nine long months had been stillborn, robbed of life before it even began.

      They had told her. The midwife first, then her great-aunt. They had told her it was a merciful act of God and that she should feel grateful that the infant had not survived.

      But Rebecca had not felt grateful. She had felt hollow and distraught and sad. She had cried for months, had mourned for years, had dreamt frequently, still dreamt, of the infant girl, the baby that had been created from love and passion. The baby she had never seen, had never held.

      The child that was alive! It had survived! Pain, shock and confusion rolled around in Rebecca’s head. She felt herself pitching forward. Shaking, she clutched the edge of the wooden crate so hard her knuckles turned white. “Is this another dream?” she whispered.

      At that moment the study door opened. Rebecca panicked, thinking Mrs. Maxwell had returned, but to her great relief it was her brother, Daniel, who walked into the room.