Once Upon A Christmas Past

2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

H eart rattling in his chest like rusty chains, the boy careened toward a party of scruffy men and boys gathered around a great fire in a brazier. The cold slipped beneath his short trousers and exposed arms poking like sticks from his coat. Flames of rapturous heat reached for him as he passed the blaze.

The bell tolled two…

“Raven Cratchit, get your nose out of that book this instant!”

Raven jumped at the screech of her mother’s voice but continued reading until the book was jerked from her hands and slammed shut. “Well, I suppose I’m finished.”

Mrs. Cratchit, a handsome woman with salt and pepper hair and a pleasantly plump figure, had never been one for dawdling when there was a social engagement to attend. And let there be no doubt, her mother saw Raven’s absorption with An Introduction to the Study of Experimental Medicine as procrastination of the worst sort—and she would not be wrong. Raven much preferred her studies to the arduous dinner that lay ahead.

Mother dropped the massive text on the bureau with a thud and then scooped Raven’s velvet gown off the bed. “Where is Mary? That maid will be the death of me yet!”

Raven rose from her bedroom window seat and stretched her arms to the ceiling with a yawn. “Cook sent Mary to the butcher to collect a ham. The kitchen maid is ill, you know. I took her one of my poultices and a strong peppermint tea, but with her drainage that putrid green, I instructed Mrs. Bowley to keep her out of service for at least a week or risk infecting the household.”

Her mother stood hands on hips; the voluminous folds of Raven’s sapphire velvet gown looped through her elbow. “A ham?”

“A ham.” Out of everything Raven had said, leave it to her mother to focus on the mundane.

“Who ever heard of sending a lady’s maid to the butcher?” Mother shook her head in abject disgust. “And on the day of your engagement dinner.”

“Yes, that.” Raven plopped into a chair, lifted her skirt, and began to roll down a cotton stocking, her mind on a patient she’d seen the day before at Hill House. The child had chronic spasms of the bronchi that made breathing difficult, especially during physical exertion. And the boy never seemed to stop moving. His previous physician believed the asthmatic condition to be psychosomatic and advised his guardians to treat him for mental depression.

Raven lifted her arms and allowed her mother to remove the day dress over her head.

After spending less than five minutes with Chip Lightheart, Raven had known the boy’s diagnosis to be incorrect. Chip certainly suffered from bronchi asthma, but he did not display a bit of melancholy.

She stood and sucked in her breath as her mother cinched her corset.

Her earlier study of Claude Bernard’s theories on investigational medicine gave her an idea… “Oh!” She’d not taken a full step toward her bookcase when Mama yanked her back by the laces.

“I’ll get you into this gown if it kills me, young lady.” Her mother tugged with unnecessary force.

“But mama, I’ve just had an epiphany. Chip has spasmodic contractions in his lungs that are unresponsive to conventional treatments…” Her words trailed off at the possibilities and then picked up again. “The Chinese use acupuncture…I need Peter’s text. And I believe he has a needle kit—”

“Darling,” Mother sighed. “I do admire how you wish to help others, but as we speak, your brother is preparing for your engagement dinner. You may talk to him all you like about lung spasms and Asian remedies in the carriage.” Taking Raven by the shoulders, Mrs. Cratchit turned her around and began adjusting her sleeves and bodice. “But please promise me, on figgy pudding and all you hold dear, that you will not discuss medicine at the Griffins’ home.”

Raven lifted an amused brow. “On figgy pudding?”

Her mother glanced up from fussing with the sapphire silk bows at Raven’s elbows, mirth sparkling in her eyes. “I know how you adore Christmas. Perhaps even a bit more than doctoring?”

“I’d say they are neck and neck in the race for my affections.”

Mrs. Cratchit straightened. “And where does Jonathan Griffin place in this hypothetical race?”

A knock sounded on the bedroom door, saving Raven in the nick of time from admitting her betrothed lagged somewhere near the back of the race.

Mrs. Cratchit opened the door to the parlor maid who held a brown paper parcel in her hands. “A delivery for Miss Cratchit.”

Mother took the package and before the door could be shut behind the maid, Belinda swept into the room, exclaiming rapturously, “It’s from Cadbury Brothers!”

Belinda, two years Raven’s senior, was her elder sister and closest confidant. But not even Belinda knew of her struggles to feel something— anything —for the man who’d asked her to spend forever with him. John’s support of her doctoral pursuits compelled a shallow sort of affection towards him. But neither of them had spoken of love.

“Open it, Rav, before I do so myself!” Belinda urged.

Raven ripped through the paper to find a stationary card signed, “With affection, John Griffin.” And a box that smelled like heaven on a stick. Or in a bar, to be precise. Nestled inside the tissue paper were five glistening chocolate blocks. Her mouth watered at the sugary cocoa scent as she snapped off a piece and placed it on her tongue.

As the confection melted on Raven’s tongue, her eyes rolled back in her head and she groaned, her sentiments toward John Griffin sprinting into the race. The man sure knew how to give a gift. Last week it had been princess-cut sapphire earbobs. The week before, a tiny Persian kitten. Which, although quite adorable, she had re-gifted to her maid, Mary. Between Raven’s medical studies at the Florence Nightingale School and patient rounds with her brother, she simply did not have time to care for the sweet, little creature.

She popped another morsel into her mouth and savoring the rich, heavenly bite, spun on her toes in a tight circle. “You can never have too many books or too much chocolate, I say!”

“Oh, please!” Mrs. Cratchit chided. “Raven, you’re going to stain your dress. Can you please take this seriously?”

“I take many things seriously, Mother, but chocolate is not one of them.”

“What about Joohhnn ?” Belinda teased.

Mirroring Belinda, Mother asked, “Do you take your engagement seriously?”

Raven slumped on the bed, mid-twirl, and dropped the last square of chocolate back into the box.

“Do you not love him, then?” Her mother asked softly.

Raven sighed. “I love how supportive John is, and how well respected he is in the community, which will open countless doors for me as a female physician. He’s nice and funny and attentive…”

“But…”

“But he doesn’t raise my body temperature.”

“Raven Anne Cratchit!” Her mother’s scandalized tone was likely to alert the Widow Snyder two blocks down.

“Does he not make your heart go pitter-patter?” Belinda questioned with a sad sort of longing. Bel’s fiancé, whom she’d loved with deep passion, had cheated on her with a Baroness. Bel had nullified their engagement, subsequently ruining her reputation. Well, it had not been the nullification exactly, but the pot of tepid tea that she’d dumped on the Baroness’s elaborately festooned head in the middle of the Dodson’s soiree that had caused a blazing scandal. Bel had never recovered, socially or otherwise.

“Sadly, my heart does not go pitter-patter,” Raven confirmed.

Her mother harrumphed.

“Elliot used to make my hair stand on end when he touched me. He may have been a cad, but when we kissed…” Bel’s voice trailed off as she wiggled her brows.

Raven turned to her mother. “Sorry Mama, but it’s true. I’ve studied the body’s physical responses to attraction. Elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, sweaty palms, heated neck and cheeks, rapid blood flow to…”

“Oh, sweet Lord!” Mother fanned her scarlet cheeks with her hand. “How have I raised such a heathen?”

Raven met Belinda’s gaze and they broke out in hysterical giggles.

After Raven’s laughter dissipated, Mrs. Cratchit sat next to her and squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. “But he is a good man, dear.”

“And handsome,” Belinda added.

“You will grow to love him, I’m quite sure,” Mother asserted.

“And when he sees the way that royal blue gown matches your eyes, he’s going to profess his undying love!” Bel pronounced as she drifted toward Raven’s abandoned candy square.

“His love for chocolate, perhaps,” Raven muttered and snatched the sweet before her sister could reach it.

Bel’s protest was interrupted by another knock at the door. This one sharp and urgent.

“Come in!” Raven called.

Mr. Holt, the family butler, rushed inside waving a letter. “Miss Raven, there’s an emergency at Hill House. One of the children is gravely ill!”

She shot to her feet. “Is it young Chip?”

Mrs. Cratchit stepped in front of her daughter and addressed the servant. “What of Peter?”

“He was called to St. Bart’s less than an hour past.” Mr. Holt handed Raven the missive. “Some sort of carriage accident with multiple injuries.”

Skimming the note, Raven found it was as she suspected; Chip had gone into full respiratory distress. With no time to lose, she raced to the bookcase, dictating orders. “Mother, run to Peter’s room and get his acupuncture kit. Mr. Holt, have the phaeton brought ‘round…” The two-seater would make better time than the closed carriage.

“But the engagement party is in less than an hour!” her mother unnecessarily pointed out. “Surely, there’s another doctor who can help.”

Locating the Chinese medicine volume on the shelf, Raven found the correct chapter, shoved the letter in to mark the page and ran to the dressing room for her shoes. She’d never attempted acupuncture. But the book had a step-by-step process, including a diagram. She would have to study the procedure on the way. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, sharpening her mind, and clearing her emotions as she grabbed her instrument bag.

“What will I tell the Griffins?” Her mother blocked her path to the door.

“Tell them I’m going to save a boy’s life. Dinner will have to wait.”

Christmastime in London was Brit’s least favorite time of year. He stared out the carriage window as they passed a holiday market with evergreen-wreathed booths, merchants selling hand-sewn dollies with pastel cotton skirts, stuffed bears wearing bowties, and wooden trains painted in bright red and green. One vendor claimed to sell the best hot chocolate in the city, while another hawked baskets piled high with sunny oranges, fat plums, and scarlet apples, each handle tied with a festive bow. Just beyond the bustling marketplace, ice skaters wrapped snug and warm in mufflers and fur-lined jackets glided across a frozen pond; some holding hands, others wobbling along while a young group of boys zipped around them chasing a puck. Their cheers and laughter reached all the way into the carriage.

Brit turned away.

Christmases at Hill Orphanage were merry enough with the orphans decorating multiple trees, exchanging handmade gifts, and partaking in a feast that left them all lulling about like stuffed pigs. But Brit’s memories never allowed him to fully enjoy the holiday. Those lean years when he’d felt responsible for his ragtag group who stole to survive haunted him. There was no sipping mugs of spiced cider or munching on sugar biscuits while presents were handed out in front of the fire. They had been lucky to survive another day.

Never mind that many of those boys were safe and healthy at Hill House now. Some of them weren’t sheltered and never would be again.

The carriage jerked to a stop in front of a house that towered four stories above him. He jumped down to the walk on his own, asked the driver to wait, and stared up at the pristine, white bricks and multitude of glittering windows. Columns on either side of the wide front door supported a portico topped with elaborate stone crenelations and a statue of a winged creature with a lion’s head—a griffin.

Brit’s gut hardened at the reminder of an identity he could not claim. A name he did not want. The reading of the will and his sudden knowledge of family and wealth beyond his imagining did not feel real. In fact, his pulse hammered as if a copper might jump out from behind the hedge and arrest him for the tooler he was!

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he forced one foot in front of the other until he reached the door and banged a polished brass knocker.

A staunch-looking butler took his card and ushered Brit into a black and white tiled foyer that soared several stories overhead, and a grand staircase curved up to a second-floor gallery. Brit had heard of such extravagance but had never witnessed it with his own eyes.

He turned toward a set of open doors and spotted a man seated behind a large walnut desk. A man he assumed was John Griffin, his half brother .

Brit watched John Griffin’s face over the butler’s head. He reserved the right to skepticism as he analyzed the man; broad shoulders hunched, short-cropped dark hair, forehead wrinkled in concentration, wide jaw set in a firm line.

“Lord Wexford,” the butler’s voice sounded strained. “There is a Mr.…Crane here to see you.”

When John lifted his head, his eyes grew wide, and he shot to his feet. Brit moved from behind the butler and noted that his brother’s height could compete with Brit’s own, which was formidable.

John’s gaze narrowed and then widened in wonder. “Bart?”

“Brit,” he corrected as he clutched the roll of parchment in his hand, proof of his new identity, and widened his stance. Unsure if he should act the bludger or the toff, Brit crossed his arms in front of his chest. Then, deciding the man was no physical threat, he uncrossed them again. “A Mr. Veck has recently informed me that my birthname was Bartholomew Griffin, but I prefer Brit Crane.”

His brother stood in front of the desk, hands at his sides, jaw unhinged. He had light eyes, the color of a cloudy sky. A paunch protruded over his trousers, unlike Brit’s flat stomach. He couldn’t say if his own athletic build was more due to all those years of starvation or the endless cricket matches he played at Hill House. But John appeared extremely well-fed. Soft. Indulged.

A dark emotion burned in Brit’s chest that he promptly squashed as he searched John’s face for some defining characteristic, something other than their similar dark hair and height that identified them as relation. And then John Griffin smiled, long dimples bracketing both sides of his wide mouth; a smile Brit knew well.

John rushed forward and enclosed Brit in a bear hug that nearly lifted his feet off the floor. “When Mr. Veck told us he thought he’d found you, I confess, I did not believe it. But now looking at you…after all these years…”

“George!” John bellowed as he released Brit.

A bit off balance, Brit stepped back and turned to find a shorter, narrower version of John rushing into the room.

George moved towards Brit, eyes shining. “There have been false hopes in the past, but… you couldn’t be anyone other than our brother, the boy who looks just like our dear departed mother.”

George extended his hand and Brit shook it, all the while, gritting his teeth against the monster that roared inside him, demanding answers. Instead, he worked hard to maintain the civil facade Mrs. March had drilled into his head at every opportunity.

“A pleasure, gentlemen.” Brit watched a maid slowly pass the doorway, then another, followed by an older woman who didn’t hide her curious stare. “Is there someplace we may converse in private?”

“Of course, I’ll close the doors, my lord,” George said with a bow.

“I’m not your lord ,” Brit snapped. “I’m not anyone’s blasted—” He cut himself off and sank into a chair before his cockney accent reared its ugly head. Or worse, he clouted one of his newly discovered brothers in the face—a long-buried defense mechanism from his years living in the ghettos. When in doubt, punch and ask questions later.

“I believe a spot of tea is in order,” John said. “And perhaps a bit of…”

The conversation between John and George continued in hushed tones, but Brit was no longer listening. It had just occurred to him that the four-story Mayfair townhome with its plush carpets, gilt-papered walls, and even the silk-upholstered chair he sat upon, belonged to him—

Brit the street rat with no last name who hadn’t owned more than a wardrobe of modest clothing and a few books his entire life.

Brit squeezed his temples. This new reality stretched beyond his comprehension, but the bequest had stated unequivocally that every last brick would be his.

According to Veck, there had been an addendum added several years past that left the earldom and all its holdings to John Griffin so long as Brit remained missing. Now that he’d been discovered alive, the second will had become null and void, cutting out his half brothers entirely. Whether he did so or not, depended largely on the answers to the questions swirling in his mind.

“You’ve arrived at an opportune time, brother,” George was saying. “This very evening we’re hosting an engagement dinner for John’s fiancée’s family. You’ll stay, of course.”

Brit gave a noncommittal nod, noting the timeliness of his brother’s engagement. If Brit did not marry by his coming birthday, John’s marriage would solidify his claim to the earldom.

As soon as the tea and cakes were brought in and the doors closed, Brit asked the two men sitting across from him, “How did I manage to get myself kidnapped?”

John met his gaze. “A man of direct intent, I see. An admirable trait.”

“Yes, so get on with it,” Brit said levelly.

George sat forward and folded his hands. “Right. Well, we don’t have much detail, I’m afraid, as we were children ourselves at the time.”

“How old?” Brit asked.

“I was twelve and George was eleven,” John replied. “We were both mourning our mother and then when you were taken…” He stared out the front window with a far-off look.

“We could not comprehend that our family was falling apart,” George finished.

“What of my father? Did he even try to find me?” Brit questioned.

John’s gaze snapped back to his. “He ripped the world apart looking for you. At times, it was as if a demon possessed him. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t speak to us except to interrogate us for answers. He may not have been our blood father, but he was the only one we’d ever known, and his disregard confused us. If I would have known—” He cut himself off and crossed his arms before continuing, “Father hired a private investigator, and they combed the countryside together. We were in Hampshire when you went missing, you see. Lots of open space and ground to cover.”

A tiny light sparked in Brit’s chest at the thought of his father “ripping the world apart” to find him. But then reality doused the pleasure. There had been no rescue, no joyful reunion of father and son. “When did he die? How?”

John handed Brit a cup of tea, something indefinable shifting in his gaze before he replied, “When snow fell on the Christmas after your disappearance and there was no trace of you, he sank into a deep depression.”

“Looking back,” George added crossing his thin legs. “We can see his grief for Mother had no time to heal before your disappearance. Seven years passed and he just withered away. The doctor said there wasn’t much physically wrong with him. That he simply died of a broken heart.”

The wind picked up outside, bare branches beat against the window in a staccato rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. They lashed like clawed fingers poking at Brit’s soul. Could it be that he was not the only victim of this tragedy? Not only had his father suffered immeasurable pain, but the men across from him as well. Or had they been happy to see him go, knowing his disappearance secured their futures? One did not grow up in the slums of London without a healthy dose of skepticism. He turned back to the brothers. “What happened exactly? Where was I when I was taken?”

George’s eyes darted to his brother before he questioned, “You really don’t recall?”

“I was a dashed toddler, wasn’t I?” Brit snapped and gripped his thighs, leaning forward. “I have no memory of our home, either of you, or even my father. Not one recollection to connect myself to the life I presumed to live my first four years.”

John took a deep breath and as he let it out, his entire countenance softened. “We liked to play in the garden at Wexford Manor. The pond and surrounding forest were our battlegrounds, our pirate ship, our imaginary world. You tagged along every day until George, and I finally included you in our games.”

A flash, no more than a single image, pushed into Brit’s mind, of wooden swords, Brit tied with rope, and his brothers insisting that he walk the plank. Brit took a gulp of tea, noting the acidic burn as it went down his throat. “What is this?” He held the cup away.

“Something that relaxes me. I took the liberty of adding a nip to your cup, but I’ll pour you another if you prefer to abstain,” John replied.

Unable to argue with the need for a bit of calming, Brit stared into the cloudy liquid before taking another sip as John painted a picture of their idyllic life in the country.

“Evenings were spent in the withdrawing room, a warm fire crackling in the hearth, while Mother played the pianoforte or embroidered, Father read the papers, and George and I would play draughts chess. Your favorite pastime was stacking blocks into shapes and towers. Father used to praise your creations and then laugh when you knocked them over. You would growl and stomp ‘round until you gained mama’s attention and she snatched you up in a hug, declaring you, ‘Her sweet little monster.’”

Brit drew in a sharp breath and swallowed a huge mouthful of tea to cover his rising emotion. The image of his mother’s deathly pale face was replaced by a glowing smile, a soft cheek pressed against his, and the warm scents of spices and vanilla. Could it be a real memory?

“You remembered something, didn’t you?” one of his brothers whispered.

“I can’t be certain.” Brit lifted his gaze. “Did our mother wear a special scent?”

George’s smile appeared affirming and melancholy all at once. “Yes, she imported a unique olive oil soap from her homeland of Greece infused with cardamom, cinnamon, and vanilla.”

Brit’s eyes stung as he drained the tea from his cup and set it down on the tray, his skin contrasting darkly with the white china. It all made sense now—the reason his ruddy skin and black hair made him stand out from the typical Englishman; his mother had been Greek. He felt adrift. Unsure of his own identity or his place in the world. Was he a teacher? A blasted earl? A Greek scholar. He chuckled to himself.

“My lor—er, Brit?”

He looked up and had to concentrate on George’s face as the room seemed to grow and then shrink around him. Perhaps too much truth in one sitting had muddled his brain. “Yes?”

“I asked, where have you been all of this time?”

“I lived with a Romani woman, but I don’t remember much of her. Only that when I was old enough to work, she sold me to a merchant by the name of Ebenezer Scrooge.” Brit heard his voice growing louder, but he was unable to stop it. “He booted me out and I had to make a way.”

“Make a way where?” John’s brows drew together.

“The streets. A mag pickpocket, I was,” Brit insisted. Why did he feel so odd?

“So, you have lived under reduced circumstances?” John inquired.

“Reduced circumstances?” Brit clutched the arms of his chair. “If that’s what you call stealing just to eat and going to bed hungry and cold to the bones, all while sleepin’ in the gutter, mind. Just the clothes on me back and a pair of tattered boots two sizes too small that I’d stole off a corpse waitin’ at the medical school. Aye, reduced circumstances.” Brit sunk back in his chair, all blustered out, barely able to keep his eyes open.

His half brothers stared at him in expectation as if awaiting his next act. That’s when he realized he couldn’t breathe. Like some enormous bludger sat on his chest. He wheezed, and vomit crawled up his throat. John stood and watched him as one might observe a scientific experiment gone wrong.

Or gone horribly right…

Brit leapt from his seat and slammed into John, pushing him into the wall. “What did you do to me?” he growled. The room spun and John’s face slid sideways as he replied, “Not a thing. Mayhap you over-indulged before your arrival?”

Brit threw his weight forward and pressed his forearm into John’s windpipe, his brother’s face turning a satisfying shade of purple. “What did you say?”

The door swung open with a bang. “Lord Wexford, stand down!”

It took several moments for Brit to realize Mr. Veck spoke to him and that John’s eyes were rolling back in his head. He stepped away and fell backward, stumbling into George, who took him by the shoulders and steadied him on his feet.

“It was just a dash of Laudanum,” John croaked.

Brit blinked a few times until his vision cleared enough to see that John held a small glass bottle, skull and crossbones illustrated on the label. Brit had seen his fair share of the drug. Made from opium, it was used for everything from a cough to a sleep aid, but it was highly addictive, and if taken in excess, deadly. Brit never touched the stuff.

An army of spiders skittered over Brit’s skin, and he scratched his arm, then his other arm, and his neck. Sucking in quick, shallow gasps, the realization hit him as the words left his mouth. “You poisoned me.”

“No!” John pushed off the wall. “I only added a few drops to your tea.”

Brit jerked his arm out of George’s grasp and stumbled toward the door. His momentum took him straight into the wall. His heart beating hard now, he recognized the danger, even in his befuddled state. He’d once seen a man overdose on Laudanum. The images of the vagrant’s muscles seizing as he had gasped his last breath, foam spewing from his mouth, propelled Brit through the door and into the foyer.

Mr. Veck called his name, but Brit pushed through the doors and out into the wind. Staggering down the walk, he shouted, “Roger!”

The driver jumped down from the carriage and barreled toward him. “Mr. Brit, ye look green! I’ll get ye to hospital lickety-split.”

“No...” Brit gasped, his vision beginning to dim at the edges as he leaned on the driver. “No bloody…crows. Take me…home.” Jack and Olivia would know what to do. He had to get to Hill House.