3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 38

  Go with me, God.

  Rallying, I rap on the first door to my right, thankful Hester does not lodge farther down the row of ramshackle buildings, for that is the route the rat takes.

  “Hester?” I rap again.

  “Missus?” Hester’s voice leaches through the scarred wood. “Come in, child.”

  I shove open the door and immediately press my lips tight to keep from moaning aloud. Hester lies on a pile of rags in the small passageway next to a shadowy stairway. The only light filters in from a transom window overhead. For the first time, I count Hester’s blindness as a blessing. I cannot imagine waking up to such dismal surroundings each day. There is barely enough room for the other residents to pass her by. How many times has she been stepped on or kicked? My sufferings at the hands of Mr. White in a gilded and heated town house pale in comparison.

  Heedless of the dirt that is sure to grind into my gown, I kneel on the cold floor next to her and force a jolly tone to my voice. “It is lovely to see you. How are you today?”

  “A bit weak.” She moistens her lips and pushes up to sit. The air in her lungs rattles from the effort, and her breath is wheezy. I reach out to help her. I’d thought her cough bad enough, but this weakness is far worse.

  “Thanks, dearie. I’ll be better tomorrow. I’m sure of it.”

  Brave woman. We both know the odds are against a speedy recovery—or a recovery at all.

  I reach for my basket. “I’ve brought you a cottage loaf and jam, and I’ll not hear one word about you refusing it. It’s not charity. It’s a gift, fair and square, just like you gave me with that exquisite piece of lace. Now then, shall I spread some jam for you?”

  She shakes her head, loosening a grimy strand of grey hair that falls forward on her brow. “Not much of an appetite, I’m afraid. Maybe later. But tell me, how are the other ladies? Martha? Dorie? Alice and Anne?”

  A small smile ghosts my lips. How like her to ask after the welfare of others when she is the one sorely in need. “They are missing you very much.”

  “Tell them—” Hester winces and shifts her position. “Tell them I’ll be back in no time.”

  “Oh, Hester.” Tears burn my eyes, and I cannot hide the emotion thickening my voice. “You shall come home with me. This instant.”

  “There now, missus.” Hester’s fingers search the air and land on my arm, as if to press warmth and strength into me. “This is my home. I know it ain’t much, but this here patch o’ wood and nail is mine, bought with me own pennies, and I won’t be leaving it.” Her voice quavers with pride and dignity.

  But I’ll have none of it. This rat hole of a corner at the intersection of a staircase and a corridor isn’t fit for a dog, let alone an elderly woman.

  “Well,” I murmur. “We’ll see about that.”

  Hester cocks her head, angling her ear toward me. “What’s that?”

  “I said I should see about stowing this bread and jam until your appetite returns. Where shall I put it?”

  Her hand lifts from my arm, and she points across the small vestibule, to the dark corner behind the door. “Should be safe over there, missus.”

  Rising, I cross the space in two steps and set down the basket near the rest of her belongings—a comb missing several teeth, a small amber bottle with a cork, and two broken buttons atop a folded scrap of rag. I turn to bid her farewell, when something shiny catches my eye. Once again I stoop, and with my fingertip, fish out a small piece of metal and glass that has dropped into a crevice between the baseboard and floor.

  A tiny oval frame, no bigger than the pad of my thumb, surrounds a finely cut black silhouette of a man. Or it used to be black, I assume. The colour has faded to an ashen grey against a jaundiced background. It might be Hester’s, for it is relatively near her things.

  I return to her side and press the keepsake into her palm. “Is this yours, by chance?”

  Her fingers rub over the offering, and the wrinkles on her face fold as her lips purse. A single, stray tear leaks down her cheek. “Ye’ve found it!” she breathes out. “And here I thought I’d lost him.”

  Hundreds of questions bloom in my fertile mind. A lover from years past? Or maybe her husband? “Who is it, Hester?”

  “It’s my boy, Clarence.” She curls over the miniscule portrait like a prayer and kisses the glass.

  “You have a son?” The news hits me hard. Why in the world is the man not here, caring for his ailing mother? But guilt tags the heels of that thought. He might very well be deceased.

  “Aye, missus. My Clarence has been in America all these years. Probably a right fine gent by now. It’s been so long since I’ve heard from him. When I moved here from Thorneywood and fell on hard times … Well, I ain’t had the heart to write and tell him. Couldn’t afford to, anyway. No, ‘tis better he remember me as baking pies in our old sweet cottage.”

  Slowly, she slumps to the floor and hugs the small picture all the tighter. It is a holy moment, too scandalously pure for me to witness.

  Not wishing to intrude any further, I pat the old woman on the shoulder then rise. “Goodbye, Hester,” I whisper.

  I take care in opening the door and step outside, intent on two orders of business. First, I must inquire with Edmund about any other buildings that might be owned by the factory but are not currently in use. Housing for Hester and perhaps the other blind women is now as important as finishing the Old Lace Shop for their employ. Secondly, I will dash home and pen an inquiry to Mr. Barlow, enlisting his help as a law clerk to locate Hester’s son. With Christmas fast approaching, what a lovely gift it will be to have Clarence visit the dear old woman—

  If she lives that long.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Edmund

  The numbers on the page blur, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. After an hour of mathematical wrangling, perhaps it is time to rest my eyes.

  I shove back my chair and stride over to my coat, where it hangs on a hook by the door, just as a rap rattles the wood. If this is Gramble—again—he’ll find himself well acquainted with the Stoney Street curbstone, for that is where I intend to throw him. Scowling, I yank open the door, ready to collar the man.

  But it is Bella’s sweet face that lifts to mine. So does one of her brows as her gaze skims from my ruffled hair to my loosened collar. “Is this a bad time for me to call?”

  All the tension of numbers and Gramble eases at the sound of her voice, and my scowl vanishes. “Just leaving off from paperwork. May I buy you a cup of tea? I hear there’s none quite like a stout factory brew.”

  Her lips quirk. “As co-owner of the factory, I suspect I’ve already paid for it.”

  “Humour me.” I wink and close the door.

  Bella falls into step with me as we descend the stairway, and I glance over at her. “Actually, it’s quite convenient you stopped by. I received word this morning that there’s to be a machinery exhibition in London—remnants of the great Paris showing. And just in time, the way number seven’s been acting up. Perhaps I can find a solution by meeting with some of the machinists.”

  “That would be helpful. And London in December is so festive.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, she turns to the right without my prompting. It is a small thing she knows the layout of the factory so well, but one that strangely warms my heart. Catherine, my former wife, would have nothing to do with my work, save for scorning it as a scabrous cavern of noisy manufacture.

  Bella peers up at me as I join her side. “I’m not sure why you think it’s convenient I stopped by, though. While I am happy you are eager to attend, it seems you could have told me the news at any point in time. Today, tomorrow, next week. Would it really have mattered?”

  “Indeed, it does if I am to arrange for rail passage and lodging.”

  “And that concerns me because …?”

  With a touch to the small of her back, I guide her to a stop near one of the windows and turn to her. The lighting here is perfect, for I am keen to pr
obe the depths of her eyes when what I propose settles in. I’m still not completely certain this is a wise thing to do, but since opening the letter detailing the exhibition, the idea has taken root and grown.

  “I thought, perhaps, you might like to go along with me … as my partner.”

  “You want me to come along?” She rubs behind her ear, like she does every time she is uncertain.

  I nod. “I do.”

  “But … I know nothing about the machines or repairing them.”

  “What better time and place to learn about them? That is …” I suddenly hesitate, doubt wriggling into my mind as I remember she is here, not by choice, but by the greed of her husband. “Would you like to learn about them?”

  Her gaze locks onto mine, and her nose scrunches, like a child who’s been handed a platter of sugarplums and is unsure if she may pick one up and devour it. Slowly, a smile spreads like a dawning sun. “Indeed, I would. How thoughtful.”

  “Good. Then it is settled.” Though I likely look the part of a besotted schoolboy, I can’t help but grin back at her. It will be like old times, taking her about London—and the thought sobers me. What am I doing? Surely I cannot rekindle a flame that was doused years ago. We are different people now. Older. Disillusioned. Scarred by unhappy marriages.

  My grin fades. “Now then, what was it you came to see me about?”

  Golden flecks in her brown eyes gleam. “Must I always need a reason?”

  “You usually have one.”

  A pretty pink blush spreads over her cheeks. “You know me too well, sir.”

  Not as well as I’d like to. I clench my jaw, trapping the crazy thought behind my teeth.

  “But you’re right,” Bella continues, her fingers nervously working the edge of her beige leather gloves. “I did come with a purpose in mind. I am wondering if there are any more buildings such as the Old Lace Shop that might be renovated? The squalor the blind women live in is appalling. I should like to house them in a dormitory.”

  My gaze drifts out the window at the ring of old buildings surrounding the shipping yard, though it is a moot endeavor. Every available corner is loaded with all the new supplies for Lord Hampton’s Christmas order.

  “You are already providing the women with a warm and dry place to work.” I shift my gaze back to her. “Are you not?”

  “Yes, but they need better housing.” Her tone rises, as does the colour on her cheeks. “Hester especially!”

  With a sigh, I gather her gloved hands in mine and rub my thumbs over the tops. It is a soothing movement, one I’ve learned calms Flora when she is distraught. “You have a tender heart, and I wish I could help you. But there are no more buildings to lend you the space you’d like. I’m sorry, but you cannot save the world, you know.”

  A great glower darkens her face, the dimple on her chin frowning at me as well. “Clearly you have a penchant for sheltering and protecting those others would disparage. Why can you not extend me the same charity?”

  “Oh? Are you in want of my protection?” My attempt at humour falls as flat as the press of her lips.

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  Ahh, but she’s a beauty when she’s fired up, the jut of her jaw, the flare of her nose. I stifle a wicked grin. “Then what do you mean?”

  “I want your support. Your backing. Something other than the irritation that I see in your eyes.”

  “You’re wrong.” With one firm tug on her hands, I pull her close. “Look again.”

  As soon as the words pass my lips, I know I’ve blundered. A breath away, her face lifts to mine, and I am intoxicated. Without thinking, I release her hands and wrap my arms about her. She fits against my body like a second skin, and a need fires deep in my gut to make her flesh of my flesh. It’s wrong. Base. Shameful, even. I should release her. Back away. But I cannot pull my gaze off the fullness of her lips, and I am drawn in. Closer. Breathless. Helpless.

  The first taste of her is soft and sweet, but when she clings to me, grabbing handfuls of my coat and drawing me tighter against her, something is unleashed. Desire. Hunger. Memories of a love so pure it arcs across time and drives me to kiss her deeper, harder, longer. A tremor runs through me—or her—hard to tell, for we are one. We were always meant to be one.

  My lips travel lower, and I whisper her name against the curve of her neck. But when she moans in response, I stiffen. By all that is holy, what am I doing?

  Swallowing hard, I set her from me—and just in time. The clip of hurried footsteps rounds the corner of the passageway and closes in on us. I turn, sheltering Bella from whoever it is that approaches. She’ll be mortified if anyone suspects what I’ve just done.

  Clerk Baggett, sweat beading his brow, swipes his arm along his forehead as he trots up to me. “You’re wanted on the floor, sir.”

  All the magic of the stolen kiss dissipates, and I shake my head. “Don’t tell me.”

  Baggett shrugs. “Number seven, sir. And Gramble would like a word with you as well.”

  Seven and Gramble? Both the machine and the man are a burr in my side. I stifle a growl. “Very well.” With an apology on my tongue, I turn to Bella, but she’s gone.

  My gaze darts out the window, and yes, green skirts billow toward the gate. A rock thwunks to my gut. Whatever chance we may have had at repairing the past is now ripped wide apart by my rash behaviour.

  Two other figures pass by in front of the glass. Gramble’s scarred face grins over at a black beetle of a fellow, who’s got his arm slung across Gramble’s shoulders. For all the world, the stranger appears to be a parasite. A bloodsucker of the worst sort, especially the way he leans his head toward Gramble and conspires about Lord knows what.

  I turn back to Baggett and hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “Who is that fellow out there with Gramble?”

  Baggett cranes his neck toward the window. “Why, that’s your new man, sir.”

  “What new man?”

  “Arrived a day or so ago. Something about your recommendation, or maybe it was Mr. Franklin’s. Can’t be certain.” Baggett angles his head, his eyes narrowing. “Is something wrong, sir?”

  I glance back at the duo, unable to shake a queer sense of disquiet, and mutter beneath my breath, “I hope not.”

  December

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bella

  Across from me, Edmund stares out the train window, and I stare at him, prepared to avert my gaze at the merest hint of him catching me at my game. But after the past fortnight, I am an adept player.

  Grey afternoon light brushes soft over his prominent cheekbones, the strong cut of his jaw, the wide line of his lips. As always, his mouth is where my gaze stops, and a familiar warmth settles low in my belly. That one stolen kiss in a loud and dust-filled factory corridor changed everything, opened wide a hunger I hadn’t expected to ever feel again—yet it is one I must forget. Though I am still ignorant in the ways of business, I know without doubt we crossed a forbidden line that day, one we are both trying to scramble back across.

  And I am failing. Miserably. Every fiber in me wishes for him to pull me into his arms, crush me against his body, kiss me again until I am breathless. Remind and restore in me what a righteous love should be.

  The train jerks to a stop. He rises and ushers me out into the cold air of King’s Cross Station. People swarm, smelling of damp wool and soot, some boarding trains, others greeting friends and family. A porter juggling one too many portmanteaus rushes past me, too close. The corner of one of the big bags catches me on the hip, knocking me off balance, and my step falters.

  Edmund grabs my sleeve and rights me by entwining my arm with his. The flex of his muscles beneath my touch is rock hard.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks.

  “I am not, thank you.” I don’t dare peer up at him. He’ll see. He’ll know. The heat in my cheeks is a dead giveaway of how his nearness affects me. I am no fit business partner. I am a wanton woman unable to keep my emotions
in check.

  “Edmund, my boy! Is that you?”

  A loud voice honks louder than the din on the train platform, and we both turn to see a great goose of a man advancing, flapping his arms as he waddles toward us, a valise in each hand. He narrowly misses whapping a passing child in the head.

  He is an odd-looking fellow, with a wiry brush of a beard. Tufts of dark hair cluster on each side of his head, tipping his hat to a rakish angle. His dark eyes are big, his gaze direct, as if he catalogues every minute detail the world has to offer.

  “Uncle Charles, what a surprise!” Edmund releases me and embraces him. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “It is fate! Fortune! An amazing quirk in the time and space continuum. Why, just this morning I posted you a letter, and now here you are.” His shoulders jiggle with a great laugh. Everything about this man—Edmund’s uncle, apparently—is larger than life, though he is fine boned and without an ounce of fat to spare.

  His gaze swings to me, so intent that we may as well be alone on the platform, for I doubt he sees or hears the rest of humanity rushing past us.

  “Who is this angel? This fairy? This goddess divine?” He drops his bags and, sweeping off his hat with one hand, flourishes an ornate bow.

  I blink, speechless.

  Thankfully, Edmund fills the gap. “Uncle, allow me to introduce Mrs. Arabella White.” He touches the small of my back and speaks into my ear. “This is my uncle, Mr. Charles Dickens.”

  Dickens? The writer? Ahh. No wonder the man is unorthodox. One would have to be to create such masterful stories.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir.” I smile, hiding my annoyance with Edmund for never having told me he is related to this icon of literature. “I am very fond of your Christmas ghost story, as is most of London.”

  “No, no. The pleasure is entirely mine.” He reaches for my fingers and presses a light kiss to the back of my hand; then he straightens and sniffs with a dramatic flair. “Just as the aroma of frankincense lingers blessedly upon a holy priest, so shall I forever carry the sweet fragrance of your acquaintance, my dear.”