Once Upon A Christmas Past

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

S now drifted up like smoke under tattered boots as the boy ran. Master Scrooge would have his hide if he were one minute late with the hoary man’s stew. The boy glanced up at the ancient church tower, its spire invisible in the swirling clouds of fog, and dared the gruff old bell not to mark the hour. But even as he pushed his legs faster past shop windows brightened with holly sprigs and scarlet berries, a tremendous vibration rang through the icy air like teeth chattering in a frozen head.

The bell tolled…

1864

The outskirts of London, Hill Orphanage

“To begin, your father is dead. There is no doubt whatever about that.” The solicitor pushed wire-rimmed glasses up the slope of his hawkish nose. “The cause of death is inconclusive, but he’s dead, to be sure.” Mr. Veck moved on to the next paper as if the words he’d uttered hadn’t sent a battering ram through Brit’s chest. “I have the register of his burial here, signed by a clergyman, his clerk, the undertaker…”

The wind blew raw and keen, penetrating to the very bones. Brit suppressed a shiver and glanced out the set of long windows overlooking the garden where winter battled against autumn to make its presence known.

Brit had asked his employers, Jack and Olivia MacCarron, not to search for his parents, or anyone’s family, for that matter. They were orphans for a reason; namely their parents were addicts, criminals, vagrants, insane, or as Mr. Veck had so astutely pointed out, dead. Why dredge up past pain?

To date, only one child, a girl of autumnal curls who Ms. Olivia had taken in three years past, had been happily reunited with a mother who worked as a kitchen maid in a decent household. The girl’s father had sold her to pay a debt without the mother’s knowledge.

“…John and George Griffin, the executor, the coroner, the magi—”

“That’s quite enough, Veck.” Jack MacCarron, Brit’s mentor, and owner of the orphanage raised a palm. “Get to the point.”

The little man lowered his spectacles, gray eyes dancing as his dark brows rose into his wrinkled forehead. “I certainly did not mean to offend. However, the father’s death must be distinctly understood as it pertains to the son’s inheritance. So you see, there is a method to my madness, Mr. MacCarron.”

“Let’s get straight to the method then, eh?” Jack’s tone had frozen the blood in many a man.

“Right.” The attorney’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he assessed his paperwork. “Then allow me to dispense with a certain formality. Brit, do you have any distinguishing features, such as scars, birthmarks, or the like?”

Brit didn’t have to think long. He lifted the leg of his trousers to show a jagged scar indenting the muscle of his calf, the origins of which he did not recall.

Mr. Veck grinned. “Thank you, sir. This confirms your identity, although I didn’t need it considering you are the male personification of your mother and have the imposing physical presence of your father. But for legal purposes I had to make the confirmation.”

“You knew my parents?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve worked for the family since before you were born. Now then, for the establishment of Bartholomew’s—”

“I don’t…recognize that name. I prefer Brit Crane.” Brit crossed his arms over his chest, not appreciating the solicitor’s presence. After so many years of hardship, Brit had a good life. He’d learned mathematics, science, and literature, and thanks to the indomitable Mrs. March, he possessed the manners of a gentleman—when he chose to use them. Now, at ten and eight, he taught literature and helped run the orphanage. He’d found a purpose and a family. Learning his birth name was Bartholomew Whitney Rhys Griffin didn’t mean a wit.

Mr. Veck glanced between Brit and Jack, the newly lit fire cracking and smoking as if in response to their impatience. After a prolonged moment, the solicitor sat straighter in his chair and bobbed his head in a kind of seated bow. “Brit Crane is a fine name. However, by all social tenets, I should be addressing you by your title.”

Brit’s scalp tingled as the blood drained from his head, but before he could contemplate the man’s meaning, he landed another blow.

“In precise fact, your entitlement.” Only appearing the tiniest bit smug, Mr. Veck stated, “Your father, Whitney Rhys Griffin was the esteemed and extremely wealthy, Earl of Wexford.”

Brit froze like a pickpocket caught by the wrist. The ability to speak, move, or even breathe had left him. This chap was surely mistaken. Brit didn’t remember his family. Only the moment he’d watched a blasted surgeon bleed his mother to death. At which point, he must have been a toddler in nappies because the rest of his childhood had grown sketchy. He recalled snippets of crying inconsolably as a dark-skinned woman in colorful skirts picked him up, and then nothing until Ebenezer Scrooge had hired him as his house boy, only to boot him out a few weeks later.

That’s when he’d begun living on the streets, stealing to survive.

Warmth enveloped his left hand, which had locked onto the arm of the chair in a death grip, and Brit glanced over to find Jack’s fingers squeezing his in reassurance. This man, for all intents and purposes, was his father. Not some bloody earl he’d never known.

Finally finding his voice, he barked. “Are you deranged? I’m a street kid. A tooler .”

“That may be,” Mr. Veck said. “Your living relations claim you were kidnapped at five years of age.”

Brit swallowed hard. “My living relations?”

“Yes, you have two brothers.” Mr. Veck shuffled through his papers and peered through the lower part of his spectacles. “John and George, sons from your mother’s first marriage. It says here that her first husband died shortly after the boys were born. Following your mother and father’s marriage, the brothers were legally adopted by the earl.”

“I don’t understand.” Brit turned to Jack and then back to the solicitor. “What does all of this mean?”

“That you are an earl, and a terribly wealthy one, Lord Wexford.”

Brit stared at Mr. Veck. He wanted to insist that he was not Lord Wexford, just plain Brit Crane, the boy who’d chosen his surname from a fiction book. Brit the orphan. Brit the crook turned English teacher. Instead, he looked to Jack for guidance, but the man appeared as flummoxed as himself.

Jack blinked twice before snapping out of his shock. “How wealthy, exactly?”

The attorney shuffled through his papers again. “The bequeath includes the country seat, Wexford Manor in Hampshire and its some two hundred acres, the Mayfair townhome, railway shares, English funds, stocks, silver plate, of course, and a vault of gold coin…”

“In total, sir,” Jack interrupted. “In total, what will Brit inherit?”

“Well, that will depend…there is one…” His gaze ferreted between Jack and Brit. “…er…one stipulation that will dictate whether Lord Wexford retains his inheritance.”

“Elaborate.” Jack gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward.

The solicitor spoke quickly. “As part of the entail, the will states a quite specific condition. For Lord Wexford to claim his title and fortune, he must find a wife before he turns twenty years of age. This Christmas day, 1864, to be precise.”

Brit slumped back in his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose, unsure if any of this could be real. Brothers. Estates. Marriage. An earldom. Wouldn’t he remember if he’d been born into a noble family of wealth and privilege?

And if it were true, how did he go from a spoilt toff to picking pockets to survive?

None of it made sense.

Even the man’s dates were all wrong. “I have two more years before I turn twenty.”

When Mr. Veck did not respond, Brit lowered his hand to see the man pushing a paper across the table. A certificate, stating his date and time of birth as December 25 th , 1845, five in the morning. He had turned nineteen this Christmas past.

“Why?” Brit managed to croak.

The attorney removed his spectacles and sat them on his knee. “Assuming you do not mean your date of birth…”

Jack made a noise close to a growl and the man rushed on.

“The stipulation of marriage is most often included to ensure an heir is produced and the title and lands stay in the family line.”

A streak of lightning flashed outside the window followed shortly by thunder and then another flash. Brit turned to stare as shadows thrust themselves into the room. The boom that followed rattled the glass and drew a shriek from one of the children. Feet pounded overhead as, Brit presumed, the kids ran to the windows. A true thunderstorm was a rare occurrence in London.

A blaze, like full summer sun, lit the windows, tailed by an explosion that rumbled through the very floorboards, followed by cheers and whoops sounding from above stairs as if God himself had created a firework display for the children’s delight. At the next flicker, the distinct sound of Chip Lightheart’s voice began to count, and the other kids joined in. “One! Two! Three…” —BOOM! Their carefree laughter, safe and sound inside a home where they had plenty of warm food, cozy beds, friendship, and love, settled hard in Brit’s chest.

He faced Mr. Veck. “I don’t want it.”

The lawyer poised with a glass of ink in one hand and a sleek, black pen in the other. “Pardon?”

“Not the money, the title, the lands…I have everything I could ever need.” He turned to Jack. “I appreciate what you’ve done, finding my family and all, but I do not wish…” A grumble of thunder interrupted him and when he spoke again his voice had gone raw. “I don’t wish for anything to change.”

“Change is necessary for growth,” Ms. Olivia spoke as she glided into the room, her sleeping baby girl snuggled on her shoulder. Brit had to assume she’d heard a good portion of what he wished to turn down. She had a way of knowing just about everything that went on at Hill House.

Lightning flared, and the baby squirmed, letting out a tiny cry.

“Jack, can you take Franny, please?”

“Always.” Jack reached out, the child doll-like in his large hands as he tucked the soft bundle into the crook of his arm and gazed at his daughter’s face. Brit never tired of the wonder that transformed the former street lord’s expression at the sight of his baby girl. With her mother’s dark-gold curls and Jack’s clear blue eyes, she was a beauty at less than a year old.

Baby Franny popped a thumb into her mouth and dark lashes fell to plump cheeks. Olivia placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I believe she’s ready for her nap, dear.” She nodded toward the attorney. “I can take it from here.”

Jack stood and walked to the door but paused and turned back around. “You’ll make the right choice, Brit.” He grinned, his brows lifting. “Unlike me, you always do.”

As the last rumbles of thunder faded, Olivia sat in the chair Jack had vacated, fluffed her heavy silk skirts, and straightened her spine. “Mr. Veck, we are going to need a private moment. You can await us in the parlor.”

Summarily dismissed, the man stuffed his ink and pen back into its case, gathered his loose papers and stood. “As you say, Mrs. MacCarron.” With a quick bob, he exited and shut the door behind him.

Olivia leaned over and took one of Brit’s large ruddy hands in her delicate white fingers. “Do you remember when I found you on the waterfront?”

“Aye, I remember.”

“Do you recall the first thing I said to you?”

He gave a slow nod. “You said, ‘I’ll never take anything from you.’”

“That is still true, Brit. I would never rob you of something so precious. Go find your family, claim your title and inheritance. Your home will always be here waiting.” Her golden eyes filled with tears. “And if you still wish to teach, you can do that too.”

Brit stared at the rivers of rain flowing down the windows. He’d grown too comfortable. The kiss of death for an orphan thief. One had to remain vigilant to survive. But as he considered everything he’d learned from Mr. Veck, his instincts—that sixth sense that kept him alive on the streets—fired up once again, humming a warning.

He had two older brothers and a father who had recently passed on. If Jack had so easily uncovered his past, why had his family been unable to locate him? And if he’d truly been kidnapped, what could they possibly have wanted with a toddler?

He’d always assumed his dark, wavy hair, brown eyes, and perpetually tan skin meant the old Romani woman who’d sold him to Scrooge had been a relative. Perhaps a cousin his mother had instructed to take him in on the event of her death. But now that didn’t make sense.

His past didn’t add up.

Brit grinned and squeezed Olivia’s hand before releasing it. “You’ll let me come back and teach, even if I’m a blasted toff?”

“Especially!” She flashed a dimpled smile. “Can you imagine the publicity a literature-teaching-royal could bring us?”

Laughter erupted from his chest. Olivia had a way of getting him out of his own head. She didn’t give a fig about publicity; all their kids were rescued off the streets. “I’m not sure an earl is royalty.”

“Well, nobility then.” She sobered. “You’ve always been noble and brilliant and brave...”

“All right, that’s enough!” He laughed, his face burning at her praise.

She lifted a brow. “So, you’ve decided then?

Funny that she realized that before he did himself. With a decisive nod, he replied, “I’m going to meet my brothers and get the answers I need.”

“And what of your inheritance?”

“That remains to be seen. But as to finding a wife and marrying by Christmas…not bloody likely.”