Biltmore Christmas Read online

  Ned’s gaze followed hers to the window. He could see the slopes of mountains in the distance, their ridges softening as the sun disappeared behind them. Had he really been asleep for three days? He glanced to the pastor for confirmation and saw the man’s nod.

  “The Lord blessed you with some needed rest while your body healed.”

  “Yes, sir. But now I need to get up and resume my life.”

  “Not so fast, young man.” Sarah’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “You still need a few days of recuperation.”

  “I cannot afford a few days.” Ned turned on his side, the only movement her hand would allow. “I probably can’t even afford the care already lavished on me.”

  “From the look of your clothes when Melissa broughtyou to us, I’d guess you’re not penniless, Mister …” The nurse’s voice trailed off in an obvious request for his name.

  He searched his memory for a minute, relieved to find the answer. “Robinson. Ned Robinson.”

  “Mr. Robinson.” The hand patted his shoulder once again. “And you were driving an expensive vehicle on your way to visit our wealthy patrons, the Vanderbilts.”

  “My motorcar!” Concern flooded him. “Please don’t tell me it’s been exposed to vandals and the weather for three days.”

  The nurse rolled her eyes and left the two men alone in the room.

  The pastor stepped forward. “That’s one reason I came by to see you. We’re not exactly sure what’s happened to your motorcar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A couple of local boys went up to see it, but they came back saying they couldn’t find it.”

  Ned shook his head. “It can’t be true. They must have looked in the wrong place.”

  “They searched the whole length of Approach Road.” Brother Martin sighed. “They found broken limbs and some deep ruts in one spot. But no sign of your vehicle.”

  “You don’t seem to understand.” Ned’s hand gripped the edge of his mattress. “This is a disaster. Everything I have is tied up in that machine. If I can’t recover it, all my dreams will be lost.”

  “Perhaps this is God’s way of guiding you onto another pathway.”

  “I don’t want another path. I want my motorcar, or what’s left of it, anyway.” Ned heard the belligerence in his voice and paused for a moment to rein in his anger. It wasn’t the pastor’s fault his vehicle was missing. “If I have to look behind every tree in George Vanderbilt’s forest, I will get it back.”

  The older man looked at him, his blue eyes radiating understanding. “Although I admire your enthusiasm, Ned, perhaps there’s another way.”

  Ned’s anger dissipated under the calm gaze and reassuring words. He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. “I’ll be glad to listen to any suggestions you have, sir.”

  “You were brought in by a young woman, Melissa Bradford.”

  “Melissa Bradford? The nurse mentioned her earlier. Who is she?”

  “She was on the horse you nearly ran over.”

  Splinters of memory pierced the fog in his mind—a rearing horse, tree branches, fighting to control his vehicle, and the smell of lilacs. Everything fell into place. “She’s the reason for this disaster.” Ned took a deep breath and launched himself out of the bed. The room swayed as though in a breeze but quickly settled back to normalcy. His legs were rather shaky, but they held him up. That’s all he needed. He spied his trousers lying across the top of a chair in one corner of his room and limped toward them.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be up yet.”

  “I’ve wasted enough time as it is.” Ned drew a shakybreath as he pulled on his trousers and tucked his shirt into them. He had a direction now, a goal to pursue. He felt better already. “I can’t wait to talk to Miss Bradford. After all, she’s the reason I’m in this fix. If she hadn’t been cavorting through the woods on a horse she could not control, I wouldn’t have had to run my motorcar off the road. I wouldn’t have been injured. I could have already met with Mr. Vanderbilt and received his blessing.” He buttoned his shirt with stiff fingers, but the rush of blood made him feel better. All he had to do was continue fanning the flame of his anger. “The sooner I get hold of Miss Bad News Bradford, the better off I’ll be. She’d better—”

  His words were cut off as the door to his room swung open and an auburn-haired young woman stepped inside. “I came today to check on your health, Mr. Robinson. But it seems I should not have wasted my time.”

  Lightning seemed to crackle between them. Who was she? He was struck by the intensity of her gaze and the way she stood up to him, even though she barely reached the height of his shoulder. Admiration filled him. This was no simpering young woman like the ones his family often promoted as bridal candidates.

  Brother Martin cleared his throat. “Good morning, Miss Melissa.”

  Melissa? Melissa Bradford? He groaned. Why hadn’t anyone mentioned how beautiful his albatross was? Her features were delicate—a pair of wide-set eyes as green as blades of grass, a pert little nose, and a wide, generous mouth currently pulled into a tight line. She tilted her chin up and stared at him, her eyes throwing angry sparks.

  Why was she still single? Perhaps her heart was cold as a blizzard, or maybe she had a string of men chasing her and she was taking her time choosing one. “Where is my horseless carriage?”

  “Is that what it is? I’ve read some call it a quadricycle.” Her tone was cool, even though her glare practically singed him.

  Ned could feel his neck growing hot. “It’s my property, and I call it a horseless carriage or a motorcar.”

  “I suppose that’s fair.” The fire died out of her gaze. Now her eyes reminded him of summertime, a shady forest. The more he stared into them, the more they seemed to change—greens and grays and browns swirled together, drawing him further in.

  For a moment Ned forgot what they were talking about. His heart accelerated. He had never seen eyes like hers.

  Brother Martin stepped between them. “I trust everything is going well at Biltmore.”

  Ned put a brake on the rhythm of his heart as she turned her green gaze toward the pastor. “Not especially.”

  The pastor nodded. “I heard you had a problem in the laundry.”

  “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” Her cheeks reddened and she glanced at the floor.

  Ned couldn’t stop the harsh laughter that filled his throat. “So it’s a normal occurrence for you, then.”

  The lightning returned to her eyes. Ned wondered why he was baiting her. No one had ever accused him of being mean. But he’d rather see her angry than downhearted. “Do you know where my motorcar is?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I have it. And you ought to thank me for taking care of it instead of casting aspersions on my character.” She looked at him as though he were a slug and, truth to tell, he felt a bit slimy. But her words wiped his conscience clear. She’d stolen his motorcar.

  Ned pointed a finger at her. “Don’t touch my motorcar. I won’t hear of it.” A sudden weakness swept him. He supposed it was relief at knowing his vehicle—his plan for the future—wasn’t gone for good. He sank back to his bed. “Don’t do anything to it.” Was that puny sound his voice?

  Brother Martin put a hand on Ned’s forehead. “Why don’t you lie down.”

  He allowed the gentle man to pull the cover over him “Don’t … hurt … my motorcar.” Someone held a cup to his lips, and he was enveloped once again in the scent of lilacs. Green eyes chased him into an uneasy rest.

  Chapter 3

  Melissa stormed out of the hospital and marched back to Biltmore. How dare Mr. Robinson tell her not to touch his precious motorcar? If it weren’t for her, the vehicle would have sat out in the weather. She had only been trying to do him a favor. And what did she get for her trouble? Insults and suspicion.

  Besides, she probably knew more about his horseless carriage than he did. She had studied it carefully and understood ex
actly how it ran. Well, maybe not exactly. But she had a very good idea.

  Her anger cooled as a yawn stretched her mouth. Melissa should have refused Robert’s advice to visit the driver and reassure him about his vehicle. But her friend had been very patient with her the past two nights. He had even ignored the maid he was sweet on to help her work on the stranger’s vehicle.

  They had spent the first night cleaning mud, dirt, and debris from the vehicle. Of course she splashed a liberal amount onto her dress and apron. On the second day, she had donned her oldest clothes and appropriated a leather apron from the carpenter’s shed with a promise to return it as soon as she finished her work. Although the apron was heavy, it did protect her clothing from oil and grime as she slid under the horseless carriage and studied its workings.

  Its engine was a marvel, as beautiful as any of the artwork inside the Vanderbilts’ house. She understood instinctively that every part of the engine had to be in balance or it could not perform properly.

  Melissa stopped and swung back toward the village. How could she have forgotten to stop by the mercantile when she left the hospital? She had planned to purchase a monkey wrench to continue her repairs. But that was before the infuriating Mr. Robinson had forbidden her to touch his precious machine. She kicked a pinecone that lay on the path and watched as it tumbled into the woods.

  Sighing, she turned her face toward Biltmore and resumed her trek, eventually arriving at the palatial house that never failed to amaze her. Gargoyles watched her progress silently from the many levels of roofline and turrets, their malevolent expressions a contrast to the graceful lines of Vanderbilt’s castle.

  Robert met her at the stable entrance. “They’ve been looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Nora came out here awhile back.” His face turned ruddy, and he kicked at a bit of straw at his feet.

  Melissa knew her friend was infatuated with the young chambermaid and would normally have teased him about whether or not he had enjoyed her visit, but his next words took away her breath.

  “Mrs. King wants you to come see her as soon as you get back.”

  She put a hand to her heart. Was she about to lose her employment? What would she do? Where would she go? Back to the orphanage? She couldn’t do that to Mama Elsie. The warmhearted woman who had raised her and her three sisters could not afford to house and clothe her anymore. Melissa had to keep her job here.

  Turning to go inside the main house, she felt her friend’s worried gaze on her. She whispered a prayer for help as she made her way to Mrs. King’s parlor. Here and there maids worked industriously, but not one of them spoke to her. Melissa’s heart thudded painfully as she knocked on the parlor door.

  “Enter.” Mrs. King’s British accent was evident even in the short command.

  “You wanted to see me?” She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the mantel as she entered the large room and wished she had taken time to rinse her face. It wouldn’t make a good impression on Mrs. King if her chin was dirty. She pushed back a loose curl with a nervous hand.

  “Miss Bradford, what have I been hearing about you?” Mrs. King sat behind a large desk, a pile of receipts and an open ledger in front of her. She closed the leather book and pushed her chair back. She stood and turned her back to Melissa, staring out a tall window at the mountains. “Is it true you ruined one of Baby Cornelia’s irreplaceable gowns?”

  Melissa cleared her throat. “Yes, ma’am, it’s true, but I—”

  “You fixed the wringer so it won’t catch fabric in the future.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” This time Melissa limited her response.

  “Miss Bohburg is quite excited about your modification.” Mrs. King turned around, her brown eyes calm. “This is not the first time you’ve improved something here at Biltmore.”

  Not knowing what to say, Melissa remained silent. There had been a pendulum clock in one of the guest bedrooms in the west wing, a room she had been assigned to dust during her first week at Biltmore. The clock was supposed to chime every quarter hour, but the clunking noise that issued from it was not at all pleasant. So Melissa retrieved her tools from her bedroom and worked on the clock.

  After studying its workings, she understood the basic problem. Soon the clock was chiming again, but as she closed the casement and backed away, she had tripped over the edge of a rug. To stop herself from falling, Melissa had reached out and grabbed at the nearest surface, an English rosewood table with spindle legs. The table overturned and an expensive Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor and shattered. She had immediately been removed from the west wing.

  “It seems you have a propensity for fixing things. An ability Mr. Burdette and I feel should be put to better use.”

  Her heart thumped. Mrs. King and the butler had been discussing her? And it sounded as though they were not planning to let her go, at least not for now. She breathed easier and untwisted her hands. “I would be glad to work wherever you feel is proper.”

  The older woman nodded. “Your three sisters gave such excellent service in the time they were here. And I don’t doubt you will do the same. I have spoken to both Chef Anderson and Monsieur Ceperlean about placing you in the kitchen where your sister Peggy worked.”

  The kitchen? She was going to cook? Melissa closed her eyes for a moment as myriad possible disasters came to mind. How she wished Peggy was still living in the area. Her oldest sister had done so well in the kitchens when she came to Biltmore. She had visited all of them at the orphanage from time to time with wondrous stories of the masterpieces being created by the culinary experts. Perhaps Melissa could write to her and ask for tips on how to please her new taskmasters. And yet she knew how to do so—avoid any more catastrophes.

  “You will help with the more menial tasks in the kitchens, but do not let that upset you, Melissa.” Mrs. King’s kindly voice brought her back to the present. “I am certain you will soon rise to the rank of assistant chef.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Melissa dropped into a curtsy. “When do I begin?”

  The housekeeper smiled. “Such willingness is a good trait. You are to report to Monsieur Ceperlean immediately. But please try to stay out of trouble. I don’t know where we will place you if you are not successful in the kitchens.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. King.” Melissa made her escape from the housekeeper’s sitting room. She hurried down the back stairs to the basement level of the sprawling mansion, her shoes tapping on the wide steps.

  Please, God, please let me do well in the kitchens. Keep me out of trouble, and help me to perform every task I’m given by the chefs. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose my job here. …Please help me stay out of trouble.

  Chapter 4

  Ned was more than ready to leave the hospital. He had been well cared for, but after a week of convalescing, he was eager to resume his life. And eager to make an apology to Melissa Bradford. Shame overcame him as he remembered blaming her for his troubles. Brother Martin had told him about the young girl’s part in rescuing him, as well as her sterling reputation in Biltmore Village. He needed to rectify his mistake.

  The sun warmed his back as he walked to the main gate of the Biltmore estate. The gatekeeper, a tall, thin man with sharp eyes, recognized him, of course. He supposed most of the people in Biltmore Village had heard of his accident. Once he explained his errand to retrieve his horseless carriage from the Biltmore stables, the gatekeeper allowed him to pass.

  He traipsed up the macadam path, glad his leg no longer caused him pain. The ankle was perhaps not quite as sturdy as before, but that seemed the only lasting consequence from the accident. He only hoped his horseless carriage was in half as good a shape.

  The sound of a river gained his attention, and he stopped to enjoy the clear water rushing between steep banks alongside the road. A moss-covered bridge ahead drew himforward. He nearly forgot his errand as he absorbed the peacefulness of his surroundings. But concern for his vehicle and for reaching his goal so
on had him moving forward again.

  When he had first read about Biltmore Village and George Vanderbilt’s dream of encouraging businessmen to move to the area, Ned had been inspired. He had decided right then to visit North Carolina and petition Mr. Vanderbilt to support his own dream of manufacturing horseless carriages. A manufactory at Biltmore Village would be a perfect solution for both of them.

  Ned believed horseless carriages were the future of transportation, and he wanted to be a part of that future. His father thought he was crazy and would not advance him the money to open a manufactory, but Ned hoped George Vanderbilt would understand his vision.

  He topped a hill and gasped as the enormous home of the Vanderbilts came into view. It was a castle! No other word could be used to describe it. His wondering gaze traveled from one side to the other, taking in the long roofline punctuated by crenellated turrets and tall spires. The main door was in the center of the building, flanked by a line of arched doors and windows. He could see the slanted outline of what must be the main staircase to the left of the central tower and the glass roof of an indoor garden to its right.

  Realizing he was gaping at the overwhelming sight, Ned snapped his mouth shut. A carriage was being led from the double doors of a stable, a building larger than the home he’d grown up in. Ned turned his footsteps in that direction. He’d better find out what condition his vehicle was in before asking to see Mr. Vanderbilt.

  A blond stable hand met him inside the entrance.

  Ned looked around and pointed to a stall in the back where he could make out the familiar lines of his vehicle’s back fender. “I’m Ned Robinson, the owner of that horseless carriage.”

  The young man in front of him chewed on a piece of straw and watched him through cold blue eyes. “So you’re the fancy gent who nearly killed poor Melissa.”

  Ned opened his mouth to protest but closed it again. No sense in further antagonizing the fellow. From the muscular contours of his arms and chest, he could easily toss Ned out of the stable. “It was an accident. And I’m very sorry for any pain I may have caused.”