The Maid's Christmas Miracle

By Kay Springsteen

Like any young woman, Carol Endicott has dreams. Only instead of marrying and having a family, and living as the lady on a fine estate, her dreams involve one day being the head cook on a fine estate. But for now, she’s just a kitchen maid.

Thomas Beckett is smitten with the kitchen maid, Carol. He is eager to marry her and start a life with her. But he’s a stable hand and she’s a maid, and servants seldom found the opportunity to marry. It would take a miracle for them to find their way into a life together.

But Christmas is a season for miracles and the arrival of a pair of strangers one Christmas Eve brings new hope. Will they go back to their mundane lives after the holidays? Or will a miracle in a stable change their lives forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dingbat Publishing
• Release date: Jun 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005294014

Kay Springsteen

Kay Springsteen grew up in Michigan but transplanted to the south about 10 years ago and now resides in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia with her five small dogs. Two of her four children live nearby, a married son who has a daughter of his own, and one of her twins. The other twin lives just outside of USMC Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. Her oldest daughter still resides in Michigan. When she's not writing, she is transcribing and editing medical reports. Besides being an avid reader, hobbies include photography, gardening, hiking and camping, and of course spending time with her terrific G-baby. She is a firm believer in happily ever after endings and believes there is one out there for everyone; it just may not be exactly what you expect or think you want.

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The Maid’s Christmas Miracle

Kay Springsteen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2016 by Kay Springsteen

Dingbat Publishing

Humble, Texas

THE MAID’S CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

Copyright © 2016 by Kay Springsteen

Originally Published by Blue Tulip Inc.

Second Edition Published by Dingbat Publishing

Humble, Texas

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are entirely the produce of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual locations, events, or organizations is coincidental

Chapter One

Christmastide 1816

Brentwood Abbey

Bath, Somerset, England

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

Scrape.

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

Scrape, scrape, thud.

Mrs. Turner methodically chopped carrots into precise, one-inch pieces then used the cleaver to brush the bits into a waiting basin. Each sharp chop echoed through the room and elicited a corresponding throb behind Carol’s eyes. The clang and rattle of pots being tossed about drifted from across the large room as two of the newer scullery maids scrubbed them with sand. But that noise didn’t jangle Carol’s sensitivities the way the cook’s chopping did, owing to the fact that Mrs. Turner was angry with Carol, and each chop was intended as a reminder of her infraction.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.

Scrape.

Tap, tap.

Carol sighed and returned to the tedious chore of polishing the silver tea service. Cleaning and polishing were all she was good for, according to the head cook, ever since she’d upset a breakfast tray, scattering bacon and cabbage over the floor. Delivery of breakfast to the family and visitors had been late as Mrs. Turner and her staff had scrambled to replace as much of the meal as possible using fare that would have been eaten by the downstairs staff.

Which meant staff portions were appreciably lighter.

And she herself had forfeited her share, her stomach reminded her with a timely growl.

She dipped the soft cloth in the whiting, fine white clay moistened with spirits of wine, and smeared the mixture over the teapot, tarnished nearly black, taking care to apply the thin coat evenly whilst trying not to get any of the mixture on her fingers. It was the devil to get off once it dried. She tried to take small, shallow breaths as she worked. The sharp tang of the spirits mixed with the earthy fragrance of the clay to form an odor most disagreeable to Carol’s nose.

Thwack, thwack.

Scrape.

Thud.

Preparing the vegetables for the evening meal should have been Carol’s job. She’d worked hard to earn that privilege, starting in the scullery and progressing through the position of serving maid, and finally moving up to under-cook. ’Twasn’t fair. How long would she have to clean before she was allowed to prepare food again? She daren’t ask. In any case, from the grim set of Mrs. Turner’s mouth, it wouldn’t be any time soon.

What she wouldn’t give to turn back the clock. To have waited more patiently for the footmen to carry the tray, or at least for her to have carried it to the breakfast room without distraction. To be able to turn a blind eye to Thomas Beckett, the stable hand, instead of spying him through the window as he crossed the courtyard after bringing the carriage around to the front of the residence.

She hadn’t meant to stare. Not really. It was just he was so… dashing, with his sandy brown hair that fell across his forehead in messy waves, seemingly combed only by the wind. And even on