Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen

Chapter One

Mary Milne could not imagine why she had been summoned to a solicitor’s office. Her late husband most certainly possessed nothing worthy of legal transfer. Indeed, his paltry military pension barely kept food in the bellies of her and their son.

She hated taking Stevie out on so miserable a day. It was not only beastly cold, but she hated exposing her son’s delicate lungs to London’s noxious air. Today one could barely see one’s hand in front of one’s face for the sooty skies. How she missed the clean country air of East Sussex and Darnley Lodge.

What a difference one Christmas made! Last Christmas she and Stevie had enjoyed being with kindly old Lord Paxton at his beloved Darnley Lodge. Now he was buried in the churchyard near Darnley, and she and Stevie had been forced to return to London and their squalid lodgings.

“Come, my little love. Wrap your coat tightly around you. We’ve got to go into the City,” she told her son. She dreaded it. She could not afford to take a hackney coach. They would have to walk. She calculated it would take them nearly an hour to reach the establishment of Mr. Percy Stonehouse, Esquire. She prayed Stevie wouldn’t get sick. Again.

She even contemplated leaving him alone, but he was only eight. Too young to be on his own. What if the building burned down? And he was still young enough to be frightened when left by himself. Even at the risk of damaging his lungs, she couldn’t go off for that long without him.

She squashed a hat on her own blonde locks, donned her worn, hand-knitted shawl, and they left. It had been so long since she’d seen the sun shine, she wondered if it had forsaken the Capital altogether. What a wretchedly miserable day it was with piercing winds and a cold that penetrated every pore of her body.

At least Stevie had a warm coat. She had only a well-worn pale blue merino pelisse that had been part of her trousseau ten years earlier, and this topped by her shawl for additional warmth.

She looked longingly at those they passed who wore heavy woolen coats. Those trimmed with costly furs drew her admiration though she knew she would never own such attire.

The severe cold did not discourage travelers on the busy Strand. There was a dray delivering ale, several coal carts and many stagecoaches guided by teams of four horses—which always fascinated Stevie—various carts with building supplies ranging from boards to stones, a number of curricles and private coaches, and far too many saddle horses to count.

After almost an hour, her feet beginning to blister, they had made it to a narrow street a few blocks east of St. Paul’s. A sign swinging in front of a slender building proclaimed this to be the place of business of Mr. Stonehouse. She announced herself to a youthful, bespectacled clerk.

“Mr. Stonehouse is expecting you, Missus.” He got up and escorted them to an adjoining office.

A white-haired man with stooped shoulders rose when they entered. After introducing himself, he asked them to be seated in front of his desk. “I’ve asked you here today, Mrs. Milne, to explain the terms of Lord Paxton’s will.”

It was a few seconds before she realized he must be discussing her sweet Lord Paxton. When he’d sent her away, she’d never thought to hear from him again.

And she hadn’t. Lord Paxton’s kindly housekeeper, Mrs. Ballard, had written to tell her of Lord Paxton’s passing the previous month. Mary had wept for days. It was like losing her own father.

Then it suddenly occurred to her, dear Lord Paxton must have left her a little something. How very kind. She fleetingly wondered what thoughtful gesture he had made. Stevie had adored the pony in his stable. Perhaps he’d left the pony to them. Not that they could afford to keep it. But, still, it would have been a thoughtful bequest.

Oh, dear. How could she disappoint Stevie? Nothing would give him more pleasure than having a pony of his own, but if that was what Lord Paxton left them, she would have no choice but to sell the animal. She could barely afford to keep a roof over their head. There was no way she could come up with money for livery fees.

Poor Stevie’s heart would wrench even more than leaving Darnley Lodge had hurt him.

Her eyes misted as she looked into Mr. Stonehouse’s craggy face.

“As you must know,” he said, “Lord Paxton has left the