The Magic of Gingerbread Read online

  The Magic of Gingerbread

  (a Christmas Wish novel)

  Sandra Sookoo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author.

  Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.

  Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.

  THE MAGIC OF GINGERBREAD © 2018

  by Sandra Sookoo

  Published by New Independence Books

  ISBN-9781386853794

  Contact Information:

  [email protected]

  [email protected]

  Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com

  Edited by: Victoria Miller

  [email protected]

  Book Cover Design by Victoria Miller

  Couple:– Period Images

  Background: Deposit Photos

  First Print Edition: 2018

  Contents

  Dedication

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rebellious Angel by Dawn Brower (Next Christmas Wish book)

  Other Victorian-era books by Sandra Sookoo

  Regency-era romances by Sandra Sookoo

  Author Bio

  Stay in Touch

  Dedication

  To everyone who enjoys a good holiday romance; to everyone who has had their heart broken and thinks they’re no longer good enough for love. Keep believing.

  Blurb

  Sometimes the only way to gauge the depth of a man’s regard is with the magic of gingerbread.

  In 1888 London, Mrs. Eleanor Redding, possessed of a beastly, grouchy attitude, works for Western Union Telegraph Company. It gives her a certain independence and a place to hide from her disappointing past in America. When she accidentally intercepts a Morse-coded message alluding to clandestine and nefarious activity, she accepts the challenge with alacrity. It will take her mind off the fact she’s once more alone for the Christmas holidays. Why couldn’t a man look past her prickles and scars to fight for her?

  Mr. Cameron Hallewell, grandson of the Earl of Albemarle, is employed by the Home Office in the matters of foreign interests. He takes his occupation of protecting British interests seriously, but he longs for a woman to surprise him in unexpected ways, to want him instead of his social standing. When there’s news of a foreign operative lurking about Victoria Station planning something vile, he intends to track them down... only to find an attractive woman tailing various strangers on the platform and looking for all the world like a spy herself.

  They get on together like oil and water, but despite Eleanor’s prickles and Cameron’s bruised heart as well as his secrets, a spark catches between them. As the unlikely pair work together to capture a spy and prevent harm from befalling London, they come to care for and rely on each other. Throw in the intriguing prospect of an unexpected Christmas courtship, and they could have a romance that spans the ages... if they’ll only let themselves give into granted wishes and a passion that’s been there all along.

  Chapter One

  December 17, 1888

  London, England

  Excited, happy chatter cycled through the telegraph offices of the General Post Office in London as collective thoughts centered around the upcoming Christmas holiday. The sounds competed with the clatter and noise of the many telegraph machines and the four telephone switchboard lines in the room.

  Mrs. Eleanor Redding attempted to ignore the bulk of it as she concentrated on transcribing a message. Once she’d typed it on a piece of paper, she added the current date, a time stamp and put her initials on the upper right-hand corner. Then the missive went into a basket to one side of her desk. A clerk would come around at the top of the hour and distribute them to the appropriate couriers and runners.

  As a lull came over the lines—Saturday business hours would come to a close in a few minutes—she sighed. The work at Western Union Telegraph Company as a telegraph specialist was better than wages given in the factories, but the long hours under stressful conditions became trying after a while. As did the lack of variety. Messages were all the same: someone was traveling to see someone else, someone needed to tell another that someone else had died, congratulations or felicitations for a milestone event reached, or some mentioned urgent commerce-related information such as banking that was all time-sensitive. Such messages became mundane after months of transcribing—a far cry from the Morse-coded missives her father had told her about during her childhood. Still, receiving and sending messages kept her brain occupied, and that was a good thing. A busy mind meant she had no time to dwell on thoughts and silly dreams.

  And no time to descend into the doldrums that Christmas would bring.

  “I hope you have a happy holiday season, Mrs. Redding.”

  Eleanor turned toward the sound of her tablemate’s voice and flashed a small smile at the young woman who sat across from her. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. And you as well.” Lucky Mrs. Anderson. She’d been given permission, along with a handful of other operators, to take the next ten days off. Since there wouldn’t be much traffic over the lines, their supervisor had deemed it more cost effective to send the bulk of the workers home rather than pay them wages for sitting around the office chatting.

  Not that I’d have anything to do if granted unpaid leave for the holidays but sit around the boarding house.

  “Oh, I do love this time of year,” the other woman continued to enthuse with stars in her eyes. “It’s ever so cozy and homey and romantic.”

  Christmas. The time in December when dutiful sons and daughters went home to gather with family over food, conversation, and gifts, and generally enjoy togetherness. Where talk would turn to the newest matches within the fold, who had recently become engaged or married, who had expanded their nurseries, and who had managed to spend yet another year as an old maid... or unwanted widow.

  At least the guise of widow afforded her more kindness than a divorced woman who’d been thrown over for a mistress, and one who was effortlessly fertile at that. Procreation. Her heart squeezed in an unseen vice-like grip. Another area of Eleanor’s life she failed at.

  Bah humbug. Never had she felt more in sympathy with that Dickens’ character as she did now. There was more to life than family, especially if the ones who claimed that title consistently made her feel small and useless.

  Mrs. Anderson did up the long line of buttons on her brown coat before adding an unremarkable hat decorated with an ivory stuffed bird, flowers, and ribbons. Why someone so stunning in appearance wanted to hide behind drabness, Eleanor w
ould never understand. “Are you quite certain you wish to spend the holiday here?” She cast a glance about the large open room where multiple people were donning coats and wraps in preparation for departing.

  “It’s as good a place as any. And I will have Christmas Day off. My landlady has promised a veritable feast on that day for her boarders.” Not even the Western Union people were as heartless as to have their operators work on the blessed holiday itself. Eleanor shrugged. “Besides, my family is in New York. They won’t miss me.” And hadn’t for the few years she’d been living in London as a refugee of sorts, from scandal. In the bustling city full of distinct class separation and expanding commerce, no one picked her out of a crowd, and no one cared to molest her. Twice a year, on her birthday and on Christmas, letters would come with all the breezy news one could expect, but none ever contained questions asking about her welfare, her hopes or dreams, or even if she was happy.

  She didn’t offer anything personal when responding. Somehow, it was easier that way. Out of sight and out of mind, easily swept under the proverbial rug.

  It had been her idea to promise to work the offices as part of a skeleton crew. Most of the other operators had families and children; she did not. She offered another smile at her companion, to soften what could be construed as an icy demeanor or outlook. Most people didn’t understand the careful art of concealing one’s heart, locking it away to avoid potential feelings. “Have a wonderful time with your little ones. And your husband,” she added as an afterthought, for that’s what people who cared would say.

  Men. Even more of a humbug.

  “Thank you. I cannot wait. Fred is such a dear man, and he’s as excited as the children for Christmas,” Mrs. Anderson effused. The holiday fervor took years off her face. Her grin brought light dancing in her eyes and twin spots of color blazing in her cheeks. “It’s one of the reasons I’m sweet on him.”

  “Wonderful.” Eleanor stopped short of rolling her eyes at the gushing in the other woman’s voice. “It is nice to know there are good men out there.” Where did women find the good ones? It seemed to her they were as mythical as a unicorn.

  A calculating gleam appeared in her companion’s eye. “I wish you would let me set you up with my older brother. He’s beyond manly and everything a gentleman should be. He would make a nice husband for you.”

  Eleanor gritted her teeth, and when her jaw ached, she forced herself to relax. “I am doing well enough on my own, but thank you.” Why did every woman in love think all of her female acquaintances need to immerse themselves in that much-lauded state too? “I have had my fair share of what ‘gentlemen’ can offer, as well as husbands, and I want no part of the wedded state again. Or anything a man can give.” In the back of her mind, she cautioned herself not to let the bitterness in her soul show, for thirty-two was much too old to even care about such things. “Perhaps I shall acquire a handful of cats if I find myself lonely.”

  “Cats are a poor substitute for a man, Mrs. Redding.” Mrs. Anderson’s forehead wrinkled with distaste. “They cannot keep you warm on a winter’s night like a man can.”

  This time Eleanor did roll her eyes. “Yes, but they won’t betray me, or worse, either.”

  Two marriages that ended on scandalous notes, plus an affair of unrequited love, left a bad taste for romance in her mouth. Not that she’d ever known true romance. Neither of those unions had been based on deep feelings. Instead, they’d been a means to an end. Since then, she’d more than discovered that men were vile creatures who didn’t know what trust was. They were best left at arm’s length.

  “I see, and am heartily sorry for your ill luck.” The other woman sighed as if Eleanor were a hopeless cause. “If you should change your mind, let me know. He’d be perfect for you. Enjoy your holiday.” Then, with a wave, Mrs. Anderson moved over the dusty floor, her heels ringing in the sudden silence brought on by the mass exodus.

  “No, I will not change my mind,” Eleanor muttered to herself. “I merely want to be left alone. Why is this a concept that is beyond most people?” Yet, a twinge worked itself through her stomach muscles. Stupidly, there was a tiny bit of silly hope buried deep inside that she might finally find a man who’d value her. She snorted and shoved the thought away. Romance wasn’t for her; life had certainly taught her that.

  With a sigh, she returned her attention to the office. A few workers remained, and they made inroads into packing up their stations for the night.

  The drone of voices faded as the workers made their way down the stairs from the second-floor offices. Eleanor turned back to her machine. No chatter or sounds had come over the line in the last handful of minutes, and as she reached up to remove her earpiece, the unmistakable tapping of a Morse-coded message echoed in her ear.

  Odd, that. Most messages were transmitted using a bizarre alphabet of shorthand or missing vowels that took skill to translate and then type into some semblance of a missive the recipient could understand. It had been months since she’d transcribed such a coded missive. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. What could it be?

  She cast a furtive glance at the other operator in the room—Mr. Gibson. He was busy working his own machine. Then, Eleanor listened intently to the dots and dashes. Since they were faint, she strained to hear. Must not have been sent down her line but had become crossed with another. Such things happened with alarming regularity.

  - .... . .-. . / .. ... / -. . .—... .-.-.-

  She frowned. Though she’d learned American Morse Code—or Railroad Code—at her father’s knee, it had been easy enough to extrapolate that knowledge to British Morse Code—or Continental Code. It was merely a matter of listening differently.

  The code repeated itself, and would until someone answered.

  - .... . .-. . / .. ... / -. . .—... .-.-.- There is news.

  After a quick glance about the office, she tapped on the appropriate keys of her machine.

  Go ahead.—. -—/ .- .... . .- -..

  Several thrilling seconds went by before a response came.

  —. . - / .- ... .- .—. Meet ASAP.

  Eleanor swallowed hard against the frantic beating of her heart as she pressed the corresponding buttons.

  Where? .—.... . .-. . ..—..

  Oh, dear Lord, just who was she talking with, and why the need for such cloak and dagger tactics? Her fingers tremored.

  ...- .. -.-. - -—.-. .. .- / ... - .- - .. -—-. Victoria Station.

  When? .—.... . -. ..—..

  -—-. . / .... -—..- .-. .-.-.- / .. / ... .... .- .-.. .-.. / ..-. .. -. -.. / -.—-—..- .-.-.- One hour. I shall find you.

  She listened intently for several minutes following, but another message didn’t come. Since she hadn’t thought to trace the source of the transition, she’d missed her chance to do so. It had been difficult enough transcribing the faint, scratchy message not meant for her station.

  Now what in tarnation did she do with the information?

  After another quick glance about the room, she looked at the clock sitting dead center on the back wall. Seven o’clock on the dot. Quitting time. She pulled the paper from her machine and wadded up the scrap. No need for evidence of the conversation. Trusting the wad in her pocket, she tidied up her work area, shoved her arms into the sleeves of her long jacket of navy blue wool, grabbed up her matching umbrella and then donned her hat—a wonderful confection of navy and mauve ribbons, seed pearls and a big puffy bow on one side. Such hats were her one weakness; she couldn’t get enough of the millinery creations. They made her feel beautiful even when she knew she was most certainly... not. Striking was as close to good looks as she’d ever achieved, but the hats helped to set her apart from the otherwise drably dressed ladies on the street. Though life might have beaten her down, she didn’t need to dress like it.

  She murmured a faint goodbye to Mr. Gibson, who then nodded in reply. And finally, she fled the telegraph offices.

  The quickest way to Victoria Station was by foot. On a
good day, even though the streets were jammed with pedestrian, vehicular and equine traffic—and equally dirty—she could make the journey in under ten minutes. Eleanor pulled on a pair of navy kid gloves as she set off. Desultory snow flurries drifted lazily about the air, so tiny they melted before they ever hit the ground. Pity, that, for at least if it snowed, the blanket of white would temporarily cover the soot and grime and filthiness of the London streets.

  Interesting how snow could make the landscape pristine and new. Too bad it couldn’t work the same magic on people.

  She scowled at the crowds going against her current direction as the niggling hope once more came loose of the box she’d shoved it into. Damaged goods were still broken no matter a covering of fluffy, frozen water. Snowflakes against a darkening sky used to speak of romance and magic during this time of year. Now, it only highlighted what she didn’t have, what made her different from most women like a giant, throbbing, sore thumb.

  Bah! I occasionally realize I am lonely—for companionship—not the touch of a man. That is not a crime, nor does it mean I am weak.

  Eleanor clutched the strings of her handbag tighter. Why did Christmas and everything related to the holiday magnify a person’s faults and shortcomings? Why did it drive home the point that being alone was almost as worse as being a street beggar? Where had her wonder for the holiday gone? Before her first marriage, she’d behaved in much the same manner as Mrs. Anderson. She’d been the wide-eyed innocent with the hope of changing the world... of changing her man. Such stupidity on her part to think that anyone could change, especially if they didn’t realize their actions were wrong.

  Now? She forced a swallow into her suddenly tight throat. Now, she no longer believed in magic or love. Such things belonged in fairy stories and virgins’ dreams. They certainly didn’t have a place with women over thirty who’d mucked up their lives by believing in hope or romance. Lifting her chin, she gazed up into the sky and let the barely-there kiss of the snowflakes touch her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, the North Star glimmered, and seized with something she hadn’t done since childhood, she wished on it.