3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 43

  “What is the meaning of this?” I bellow.

  Gramble pushes the boy forward. “Tell him.”

  The errand boy—Jack, if I remember correctly—shrugs. “I were just doin’ me job, Mr. Archer. That’s all.”

  My gaze darts to Gramble. Despite Jack’s innocent explanation, the smug line of the man’s mouth doesn’t falter.

  “Why have you pulled this boy away from his duties?” I rumble.

  Gramble stares me down. “I caught him outside, running off to—”

  “Outside?” I snort. Does the oaf not realize he’s just condemned himself? “What the blazes were you doing outside when you should have been on the production floor managing seven?”

  He doesn’t bat an eye. “A man needs a moment to himself now and then.”

  Right. Like I believe such a tale. I face young Jack. “Did Mr. Gramble find you near the privy?”

  “No, sir. I were over by the old warehouse.”

  I narrow my eyes at Gramble. The boldness of him, using an errand boy as some sort of makeshift scapegoat to cover for his own slothful ways. My hands curl into fists. “You were smoking, were you not? You took time away from your station, endangering the filling of our largest order ever, all for the sake of a pipe. I ought to—”

  “Aye!” Gramble throws his hands into the air. “I admit it. After working ten hours straight, I needed a bowl o’ tobacco. But had I not slinked off when I did, I’d not have snagged this boy on his way to Birkin’s, about to rat off with information about the new machine. That’s right, I said Birkin’s!”

  Heat flashes through me. Of all the suspects I’ve accused in my head for being a traitor, never once did I imagine one of the errand boys. I clench my jaw and glower at the little scoundrel. “Is this true, boy?”

  Jack’s eyes widen, the whites stark against his face. Good. May the young rogue know fear for his treacherous ways.

  His Adam’s apple bobs like a cork on the water. “All I knows is I’m paid to run errands, sir. When Mr. Franklin tells me to go, I go. I learned long ago not to cross him.”

  Hmm. The words slide easily enough from his tongue. Is he telling the truth, or is he an accomplished street brat used to handing out candied lies?

  I angle my head and study him. “And where exactly did Mr. Franklin tell you to go tonight?”

  “I were to go to the big house on the hill, Mr. Birkin’s, and call at the back door for his valet. I were to tell the man”—his eyes slide up to a corner of the ceiling, as if he’s retrieving a message verbatim—“seven’s being pulled. New machine Friday. Stop the delivery.”

  My gut knots. Heat flashes through me. “Franklin told you this?” My voice booms and the boy winces, but it is not to be helped. “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Aye, sir.” Jack nods.

  I wheel about and stalk to the window, quaking with rage. My gaze darts to Franklin’s usual station, a raised platform halfway across the production floor. It is empty. A boon, that. Were he there, I’d have surely leapt through the glass without a second thought.

  How could he do such a thing? Franklin’s been my right-hand man these past nine years. Trusted. Favored. More a partner than Mr. White had ever been and—

  I suck in a breath, though I shouldn’t be surprised. No doubt Franklin had expected to rise in station and become my copartner at the demise of Mr. White, only to be passed over and by a woman.

  I turn back to Jack. “Where is Mr. Franklin now?”

  “Dunno, sir.” The boy blinks. “I left him by the old warehouse when I run off.”

  “Very well, boy. Get back to work, but do not think of going to Birkin’s, now or ever. And if I hear that you do, you are out of a job. Understood?”

  Jack nods, and I grab my coat, intent on throwing Franklin out into the street—and if a carriage happens to be barreling along, all the better.

  “Oh, Mr. Archer? One more thing, sir.” Jack stops on the threshold and hangs his head. “I’m very sorry,” he mumbles.

  I shove my arms into my coat. I haven’t time for this, but clearly the boy’s conscience troubles him. “About what, boy?”

  “It weren’t kind o’ me to smash into the lady full on.”

  “What lady?”

  “Mrs. White.”

  Everything crashes to a halt. My heartbeat. My breath. Bella? No! Am I wrong about Franklin’s motives? Is she somehow tied in with him?

  The coin glints from my desk, accusing me for even thinking such a thing. Yet the need to know burns like an ember in my chest. In two long strides, I close the distance between Jack and me and crouch, face-to-face. “Think very carefully, boy. Was Mrs. White with Mr. Franklin when he gave you the information?”

  “No, sir.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “She were just nearby, walking with a lantern. Only …”

  The mantel clock strikes six bells, each metallic dong overloud as I wait for the boy to speak. Jack’s mouth twists with some kind of ugly secret.

  “Only what?” I prod.

  “Well, I can’t be sure, sir, bein’ I run off, but I don’t think Mr. Franklin were too kind to the lady.”

  Behind me, Gramble’s feet shuffle and a single pearl tethered to a silver necklace lowers in front of my face. “Found this out in the yard, sir. I’m inclined to believe the boy. I know what Franklin is capable of, bein’ on the receivin’ end o’ his fist more times than naught.”

  I snatch the necklace from Gramble’s grip and crush it to my chest, a deadly rhythm throbbing in my temples.

  Jack scuffs the floor with his toe. “Dunno what Mr. Franklin said to her, Mr. Archer, but I do know the tone o’ voice he were usin’, all growly and mean. I know what comes after it too, and I don’t think the lady will like it.”

  White-hot rage stiffens my spine. I cannot undo the past and protect her from the fist of Mr. White, but if Franklin has so much as left a bruise on her, then God help him. I rise and cast a dark look over my shoulder. “Gramble, with me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, I shove past the boy and bolt from the room. I down the stairs two at a time, each step hammering a mantra inside my skull.

  Find Bella. Find Franklin.

  What I’ll do to the man afterward depends upon the state in which I find Bella.

  Only Franklin and I hold keys to the old warehouse. Why he was prowling about there at this time of night is anyone’s guess, but hopefully the blackguard is still there and Bella is safe. I yank open the door to the yard.

  And my world explodes.

  “Fire!” Gramble yells at my back.

  I take off at a dead run.

  Smoke billows out the top half of the open warehouse door. No matter. I charge inside. “Franklin!” I roar. “Bella!”

  The worst of the flames are to my right. Heat singes that side of my body. I swivel my head like a madman, frantically searching the hellish light for Bella or Franklin.

  “Bella!”

  Sparks spread. I see no sign of her. Fear and smoke drive the breath from my lungs.

  “Bella!” I try again and again.

  Nothing.

  Do I go on? Perhaps neither are here. Perhaps Franklin has spirited her away. Perhaps the boy got it all wrong to begin with. Coughing, I turn back toward the door, desperate for cold air, only to hesitate again. What if I am wrong? What if Bella is here? Fear and need pull me in opposite directions. I no longer know who or what to trust … except for the One I should have trusted from the beginning.

  Which way, God?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Bella

  All is black. The air. My lungs. Hope. The floor is white hot, but I press my cheek to it anyway. I’d trade anything for a cool draught of winter wind. How careless that I’ve never once thanked God for the simple act of breathing. How many other mundane blessings have I missed savoring in my lifetime? And now it is too late.

  Oh, God, forgive me.

  A fitting prayer for my last.

  There’s no point in closing
my eyes. The room is dark, save for the dull flicker of reddish orange in the space between door and threshold. It’s coming for me, that scorching heat. I try to care, but I can’t make myself. Smoke clogs my nostrils, my throat, my will.

  “Bella!”

  My name crackles. Is this what happens the moment before death? You hear your name and then fly away? I’d spread my arms wide and soar from here were it not for the bindings cutting into my wrists.

  “God?” I whisper.

  “Bella!”

  Hmm. My name comes from below. In a man’s voice. Sharp. Frantic.

  Edmund.

  A smile cracks along my lips. What a happy dream. A blissful memory. One I will embrace as I leave this world. There is no other sound on this earth I would rather take with me.

  “Bella!”

  Edmund’s deep bellow cuts through my stupor. This is no dream. I roll to the door and shove my face close to the gap. “Edmund!”

  It is little more than a croak, one the fire drowns out with its demonic snapping and popping.

  Bracing myself for the sweltering pain that will surely consume my chest, I suck in a huge breath—then blow out a final cry along with the last of my strength. “Help me!”

  It is the best I can manage.

  But is it enough?

  I close my eyes. There is nothing more to do other than lie here and wait for my savior. Either Edmund has heard and will deliver me from the flames, or Jesus will lift me in His everlasting arms—and with that realization, peace and light waft over me like a warm breeze.

  Wait a minute….

  I blink. True light, albeit devilish, glows in the doorway—the open doorway. A dark figure crouches then pulls me upward. Solid muscle and flesh cradles me against a rock-hard chest and spirits me away. Enough of my wits remain that I know it is not the Son of God come to call. We judder down the broken stairs, sometimes teetering sideways, until finally I am carried out into a chaos I can barely comprehend.

  Men shout. Scramble over one another. Curse. Arcs of water spurt against the old warehouse, doing nothing to lessen the hellish glow lighting the macabre scene. When the first fresh draught of air scrapes down my throat and fills my lungs, I convulse. Hot pain pulses in my chest. This is salvation?

  Coughing, I turn my face against Edmund’s waistcoat and shut out the horrific sight, but not my hacking. His arms tighten around me.

  “Gramble, here!” Edmund barks and sets me down.

  Cold seeps through my skirts, and I tilt sideways. With my hands yet bound, there is no way to right myself. Even were I freed, I’d tumble anyway. Uncontrollable coughing shudders through me, so sharply my ribs may crack.

  But I don’t hit the ground. Edmund’s strong arms support me.

  Boot steps stop next to where Edmund crouches. Mr. Gramble’s. Edmund holds up his hand. “Give me your knife.”

  A moment later, the ropes on my wrists fall away. In reflex, I slap my hands to my mouth and double over, riding the crest of a powerful coughing wave.

  And through it all, Edmund is there, patting me on the back, keeping my world upright, murmuring encouragement into my ear. “That’s it. Get it all out. You’re going to be fine.”

  Yes, by God’s good grace and Edmund’s act of bravery … but what of Mr. Franklin? Is he even now lying in a charred heap, or had Edmund gotten him out first?

  “Mr. Fr—” I gasp for air and fight against another bout of hacking. “Mr. Franklin.”

  Edmund’s arms tighten to steel. “What of him?”

  “He’s—” I hack once more then slowly inhale a soothing breath. “He was in there. Below the stairs. Did you get him?”

  Edmund peers at me, the whites of his eyes stark against his soot-smeared face. “Are you certain?”

  Am I? I fight to remember. The crack of the stairs. Mr. Franklin’s profanities. The whump of his body hitting the floor along with the shattering of the lantern.

  I nod.

  “Blast it!” Edmund’s voice rages as hot as the fire.

  He shoots to his feet. And is gone.

  I roll to all fours and push up onto wobbly legs. I want to holler at him to stop. To order someone else to search the inferno for Mr. Franklin’s broken body. But Edmund sprints, his long legs running headlong toward a fire growing larger with each passing moment. All I can do is stare, straining to breathe. By now Mr. Franklin might already be dead. Edmund could be risking his life for a man beyond saving.

  I sink to my knees. What have I done?

  Chains of men continue to pass buckets. Their toil and sweat, while valiant, accomplishes nothing but spits and sizzles where the water hits. Flames taunt the night sky with their brilliance.

  “Over here! Now!”

  I jerk my gaze toward the yelling. Fire leaps across the gap between buildings, spreading like a malignant cancer to the main structure. The men move as one to combat that side of the complex instead of the old warehouse where Edmund has disappeared—maybe forever.

  Tears roll hot down my cheeks, and I clench great handfuls of my skirt.

  God, please. Don’t take him. Not now. Not yet. Flora needs him. I need him!

  Once again I stagger upright. I will grab one of the men away from the line. Plead, scream, anything to get someone to bring Edmund out of the fire. Three paces later, I stop and cup my hand over my brow, squinting into the impossible brightness of the old warehouse.

  A dark shape emerges, man sized, with a body slung over one shoulder. Edmund! He lurches away from the building just as the walls collapse inward. Sparks burst wild against the night, flying high, shooting outward, but I don’t care. I run toward the blaze on shaky legs to where Edmund slings the body he carries onto the ground. Mr. Franklin moans. He is alive, for now.

  Edmund swipes his forearm across his eyes. He is blackened and blistered, his hair singed and skin streaked. And he is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

  “Gramble!” he shouts.

  “Edmund!” I cry and launch toward him.

  He turns his head at my approach and his arms open wide, catching me. Great sobs rip from my throat.

  “Shh,” he whispers into my ear. “You are safe, as am I.”

  I cling to him as he orders Mr. Gramble to haul Mr. Franklin to a doctor. Edmund’s heart beats strong against my ear, and for one blissful moment, I pretend the heat I feel from the raging fire is nothing but the sun shining down on us. But when I pull away, the nightmare rears its ugly head.

  Hand in hand, Edmund and I stand together along with the workers, staring as Nottingham Lace and Hose burns out of control.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Bella

  Sullen morning light creeps in through my bedroom window. I sit at my desk, trying hard not to think how the wispy flakes floating outside look like falling ashes, but it’s not working. Since the fire two days ago, whether my eyes are open or closed, all I see is destruction. My hand reaches to rub my mother’s pearl necklace, only to meet bare skin. It, like so much else, is irretrievably gone. Lost because of my rash and prideful decision to come to Nottingham. Never again will I run ahead of God’s will instead of seeking it in the first place. Oh, the vanity of wishing to become my own woman!

  I pick up my pen. It is a small penance, this flourishing of ink on paper, but I pray it will somehow mend and heal the ugly wounds I’ve caused. It is cowardice to write to Edmund instead of saying goodbye face-to-face, but that is the least of my sins. Had I not confronted Franklin on my own, his factory would still be standing. Catherine may have disparaged his business, yet I am the one who ruined it. I begin to write:

  Dear Edmund,

  It appears it is my turn to leave you behind, though I suspect you shall not be disheartened to see me go. Today, I travel to London.

  I draw back my hand before the trembling in my fingers causes an indelible blob to drip from the nib. It is so final, this parting. A death. Like a handful of dirt thrown atop a casket in the ground. I don’t want to leave Edmund. H
is strength, his encouragement, his no-nonsense way of managing the world have all influenced me in the time I’ve been here. I shall sorely miss his steadying presence. Without him, I am adrift on a lonely sea. But after all that has happened, why would he wish to see me ever again?

  Sucking in a shaky breath, I blot my pen and start again:

  Words cannot express my sorrow at the mess I’ve created.

  Had it not been for my blundering indiscretion, the factory would still be standing. For that, I am truly sorry.

  And I am. More than I can express. Sorry for the trouble I’ve wreaked in Edmund’s life. Sorry for ever thinking I could be an independent woman, reliant on my own weak self. I should’ve known. How many times had Mr. White pointed out my shortcomings? Why did I not believe him?

  I dip the pen once more and continue:

  For what it’s worth, I am enclosing the signed paperwork naming you as the sole owner of Nottingham Lace and Hose. It is a dreadful case of too little, too late, I’m afraid, yet I hope in some small way the banknote I’ve attached will help you to rebuild and start again.

  Please give Flora my regards. She is a darling girl. The world is a brighter place because of her, and I count myself fortunate to have spent so much time in her presence.

  I wish her and you well, for now and for always.

  Sincerely,

  Arabella White

  The world turns watery, and I blink rapidly to keep tears from falling and marring the page. Never again will I see Flora’s ready smile or the way she bobs her head when she’s excited. My stomach twists. How I will miss her.

  I press my knuckle to the corner of my eye and dab away the moisture. It is best I remove myself before doing any more damage to Edmund and his daughter. I know it in my head … but my heart rebels.

  Ignoring the burning in my chest, I reach for the pounce pot, and my gaze lands on the folded piece of Hester’s lace laid nearby. I’d nearly forgotten.

  Once again, I reach for the pen: