Page 1 of A Very Roguish Boxing Day
Chapter1
Merstham, England
July 1818
An unexpected inheritance is supposed to be a happy event.
But nothing ever happened as it was supposed to for Gwendolyn Brocklesby.
It was the second funeral Gwendolyn had attended that year.The first had been for her parents, who had died of a fever the previous autumn.Gwen had been spared not so much by the grace of God but rather due to the fact that her parents had not cared to have their odd, embarrassing bluestocking of a daughter accompany them to such a fashionable place as Brighton.Thus had Gwen been at a safe distance when the disease struck.
This time, her Aunt Agatha was the one being laid to rest.Strictly speaking, she was Gwendolyn’s great-aunt, but Gwen had always called her Aunt Agatha, ever since she was a small child.Growing up, Gwendolyn had spent summers at Aunt Agatha’s home, Frogcroft Cottage.And Christmases.And any time her parents wanted to hie off to Brighton, or Paris, or the Lake District, and… gracious, now that she thought about it, over the years she had probably spent more time here, in Merstham, than at her parents’ house in London.
She felt a pang of guilt because the overwhelming grief she felt at Aunt Agatha’s death brought into sharp relief the fact that she had not been devastated by her parents’ passing.Surely, it should have been the opposite.They were her parents, after all.
It was just that Aunt Agatha had actually loved her.
Aunt Agatha had been married once but had never been blessed with children, and her husband, John, had died long before Gwen was born.Gwen fancied that Aunt Agatha thought of her as the daughter she’d never had.She certainly thought of Aunt Agatha with a maternal warmth that it pained her to admit she did not feel for her own mother.
Perhaps it was the fact that Aunt Agatha had always had time for her.Unlike most women of her class, she made everything herself.Delicious jams made from the blackberries she grew in her own garden.Three different kinds of cheese.And she had a tincture for whatever ailed you, from headaches to nettle stings to dyspepsia.When Gwendolyn came to visit, they made them all together.Gwen knew that, especially in her early years, she was not a help but a hindrance, but Aunt Agatha had never shouted at her when she cracked an egg onto the countertop rather than into the bowl, or when she somehow rendered every surface in the kitchen sticky with honey.Those were some of the happiest memories she had from her childhood—being elbow-deep in cheese curds with Aunt Agatha, who laughed rather than scolded when Gwen got some in her hair.
Her favorite chore was tending the bee boles in the back garden.Aunt Agatha never tired of explaining how bees formed their own society, with rules as intricate as the court of any king in Europe.
“Except with the bees, Gwen my dearie, it’s the queen who is in charge!”Gwendolyn could picture the gleam in Aunt Agatha’s eye when she said it.Aunt Agatha was always excited rather than annoyed when Gwendolyn asked questions.She was the only person who didn’t bemoan the fact that she was a bespectacled bluestocking rather than a great beauty and the only one who liked her precisely as she was.
That was why Aunt Agatha was her favorite person on the face of this earth.
And now, she was gone.
Dabbing her raw eyes with her handkerchief, Gwen peered at her great-aunt’s longtime solicitor, Mr.Reynolds, from across the churchyard.She knew he had been charged with distributing her aunt’s effects, and there was a particular item she was hoping she might have.But she hadn’t figured out how to broach the topic without sounding grasping.
She was therefore relieved when Mr.Reynolds approached her.“Miss Brocklesby,” he said, bowing his head, “I am so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Gwen whispered.
When Mr.Reynolds looked up, his eyes were kind.“I know you will not wish to think about legal concerns on a day such as this.But your great-aunt left you a bequest, and I thought it might be more convenient to dispose of it before you head back to London.”
Hope flared in Gwen’s heart.“A bequest, truly?Is it her household book?”
Many women kept household books, full of recipes, remedies, and tidbits of advice.Gwen had so many memories of the two of them standing in the kitchen, heads bent together as they recreated a recipe out of that book.
It was even written in Aunt Agatha’s own hand.
Gwen’s throat seized, and she dabbed her eyes for what must be the thousandth time.Aunt Agatha’s household book would be precious to her beyond any treasure.
A soft smile came across Mr.Reynolds’s face.“It includes the household book.”He inclined his head toward the town center.“Come with me to my office, and we’ll read her will aloud.”
It was just a short walk from St.Katherine’s Church to his office on High Street.Her brother, Joseph, who had become Gwendolyn’s guardian upon their parents’ deaths, said he would come along with the stated goal of “hurrying things along.”There was a faro game he wanted to attend back in London, and he was determined that they would be on the road home within a quarter of an hour.
Once they were seated and Joseph had declined Mr.Reynolds’s offer of tea on both of their behalves, the solicitor opened a file folder.Withdrawing a few sheets of paper, he cleared his throat.“In the Name of God, Amen.I, Agatha Grace Brocklesby, a widow residing in the town of Merstham, in the county of Surrey, being weak in body but of sound and disposing memory?—”
“Can we get on with it?”Joseph asked.“What did my sister get?Summarize.”
Mr.Reynolds laid down the papers.His expression was carefully blank, but Gwendolyn formed the impression that he was suppressing a scowl.“Indeed, Mr.Brocklesby, it is a simple matter to summarize.Your sister has received everything.”
“Very good.”Joseph stood.“Do you have it here, then?”
Mr.Reynolds’s eyebrows shot up.“Indeed, no.I do not have any of Mrs.Brocklesby’s effects here in my office.”
