Once Upon A Christmas Past

3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

T he boy rounded the corner onto Cornhill and his feet hit ice. His left arm windmilled, but he didn’t dare balance with his right for fear of splattering the stew, a mistake that would surely cost his employ. Children laughed and slid on their bottoms all around him, soft white comforters wrapped around toasty necks. The boy fell to his seat and lifted his legs, the warm package tucked against his belly as he slid. Silvery snow smacked his cheeks, pulling a twinkle of a smile from his lips.

The bell tolled three…

Raven placed the hair-thin needle into Chip’s skin just beneath his nose, amazed that her hands were steady despite the man hovering over her shoulder. Jack MacCarron’s reputation for intimidation had not been exaggerated. But as she positioned the last needle and Chip’s breathing began to regulate, Mr. MacCarron’s iron facade fell away.

When she’d first arrived at Hill House, Chip’s respirations were shallow and erratic, his face beginning to turn blue from lack of oxygen. Still, after the traditional breathing exercises failed, it had taken some persuading before Mr. MacCarron had allowed her to try the unconventional acupuncture therapy. She suspected Mrs. MacCarron would’ve been easier to convince, but she and the baby were out visiting family.

The rumors that swirled around Hill House were numerous and of the epic variety. Mainly, that the founders had grown up in the ghettos of London, stealing to survive; Olivia disguised as a boy and Jack as the infamous street lord, The Artful Dodger. But Raven’s favorite tale—one that she hoped in her heart was true—depicted a tragically romantic account of Olivia being arrested and Jack, willing to sacrifice his life to save the girl he loved, confessing to the crime. Rumor had it, that Olivia solved the mystery herself, resulting in Jack’s exoneration. The couple had married and started the orphanage shortly thereafter.

“That a boy, Chip. You can beat this thing,” Jack encouraged as he took a seat across from her young patient.

Chip let out a soft sigh as the contraction in his chest released. Purple shadows framed his blue eyes, his skin appearing translucent. He sat naked from the waist up, needles sticking from strategic points around his abdomen and up to his eyebrows. A haze of burning lavender oil and cloves enveloped him.

“That’s right, Chip, breathe deep,” Raven instructed. The vapor of the herbs would help reduce inflammation in the bronchi and further open his passages. Although holistic treatments were not taught at the Florence Nightingale School, nor according to Peter, at the medical academy, ancient healers had been using herbal remedies and acupuncture for centuries.

She placed her fingers on Chip’s wrist, sending up a prayer of gratitude that his heart rate had returned to normal. The clock on the mantle struck seven, reminding her that if she wished to make the pudding course of her engagement dinner, she had best hurry.

A red-haired gentleman strode into the room, took one look at Chip’s needle-covered torso, and stopped short. “Well! Didn’t know pincushions were in fashion this season.”

Raven gave a weak laugh, as she watched the miniscule needles quiver with Chip’s breath. Mr. MacCarron shot her an odd stare just as a thud sounded from overhead, vibrating the walls themselves, followed by a youthful shriek.

Jack stood and tipped his head in Raven’s direction. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Cratchit. Duty calls.”

“Of course.” She dipped a quick curtsy as another rancorous smash sent Jack half running out the door. With one last affirming glance in Chip’s direction, Raven crossed the room to gather her things. Mother would have her drawn and quartered if she didn’t arrive at Wexford House within the hour.

“And who might this vision of loveliness be?” The red-haired gentleman appeared at her side. “Mr. Archibald Fox, at your service.”

Having forgotten his presence, Raven gave a bit of a start. “Er…nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fox.”

Auburn brows lowered over odd yellow-green eyes. “And you are?”

Raven coiled her stethoscope around her hand. Perhaps his forward manner had set her on edge, but something about this man felt off. “Miss Raven Cratchit. Physician.”

“A physician, you say?”

She nodded and gathered the acupuncture text to her chest.

Mr. Fox tipped his head to her. “You may call me Archie, luv.”

Meeting his dancing gaze, Raven was suddenly glad she’d declined Belinda’s offer to accompany her. The man before her, with his angular face and irreverent, devil-may-care charm, would’ve drawn her sister in like a banquet of Turkish delight.

“We’ve only just met Mr. Fox, that would hardly be appropriate.”

Covertly eyeing the book in her arms, Archie gave a rueful grin as he dipped into a bow. “My sincere apologies, Miss Cratchit.”

An old woman hobbled, faster than Raven would’ve believed possible for a human of her advanced age, into the parlor and stopped in front of Chip who sprawled across a divan, eyes at half-mast. “Insufferable, boy! What have you done now?”

Without waiting for an answer, the old woman turned to Raven. “Mrs. Lois March, Miss Cratchit. My gratitude for helping this rascal.” Mrs. March sank down on the sofa next to Chip and propped her cane against her knee. Raven’s gaze swept across the woman’s skirts, longing to examine her legs for rheumatism. She could prescribe a cream of— no, not this visit , she reminded herself as she returned to the patient at hand.

“How do you feel, Chip?” She leaned in to remove one of the implements where a dot of crimson welled. She must’ve implanted it too deeply. Not surprising, given the way his chest had heaved during the administration.

“Much improved, Doc Cratchit.” He breathed deeply as the old woman took his hand. “But I don’t have to keep these stingers in my skin, do I?”

Raven grinned. She rather liked the sound of ‘Doc Cratchit.’ “Not long. Only a few more minutes—”

A loud bang from the foyer cut off her words. Never a dull moment at Hill Orphanage, apparently. Even as she thought it, a large man stumbled into the room. Dark waves of hair fell over a strong, pale face, his gaze unfocused, his breathing erratic. He was either ill or knock-down drunk.

Archie pushed off the wall where he’d been leaning. “Corned so early, mate?”

The man’s wild eyes scanned the room, landed on Chip, and then zeroed in on the crimson-tipped needle clutched between Raven’s fingers. Something akin to a roar escaped his throat as he clenched huge hands into fists and rushed her. “Whot ‘ave you done, ye bloody crow?”

Raven sprang to her feet and sidestepped as the man fell against the chair, chest heaving.

“Brit!” Jack MacCarron reappeared and grabbed the man’s arm, tugging him back as he lunged after her again. “Miss Cratchit helped Chip through a violent breathing attack. She’s a healer.”

Archie strode over to the newcomer. “What’s happened to you, man?”

Brit itched his arm and then clawed at his neck, covered in red streaks. “My throat…is closing.”

“Get the boy a drink, you imbecile!” Mrs. March banged her cane on the floor.

Cautiously, lest the big man attempted another attack, Raven moved closer and noticed he exhaled with a sharp wheeze and swallowed excessively.

“He’s having an asthmatic attack, like me,” Chip said, just as Raven came to a similar conclusion.

“Lay him down on his back,” Raven ordered. “On the sofa.”

Mr. MacCarron bolstered the larger man under his arm and helped him lie down.

Raven leaned over Brit and put two fingers to the pulse in his neck. His skin was hot to the touch, his heart rate erratic. “Do you have asthmatic spells often?”

“Never.”

“Did you eat or drink anything unusual today?”

Brit’s eyes met hers and she noticed they were almost black. “Laudanum.” He took a shallow breath. “My brother…put it…in my tea.”

“Have you ever taken Laudanum before?”

“Once.”

“Did you react to it?”

His gaze darted back and forth, his chest heaving as he nodded. “Yes, but not as…severely.” His words sounded thick.

“Open your mouth, please.”

He did so, and as she suspected; his tongue had begun to swell. Not good. Adverse reactions to substances had little known treatment. However, she suspected his heightened emotions exacerbated his reaction. Many times, the body followed the mind.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and those fathomless eyes searched her face as she instructed, “Focus on your breathing. Inhale deeply.” She demonstrated as much as her corset would allow. “And let the air out slowly.” She pursed her lips and blew. Brit followed her rhythm, and after a moment had gained a bit of control.

Raven stood and went to Mr. MacCarron. Uncertain of Jack’s relationship to Brit, but sure of his authority, she led him away to the hearth and said, “Brit is having a reaction to the Laudanum. Medically speaking, we cannot be sure why it happens, but some individuals cannot process certain substances and they act like poison to their system. He needs to be bled.”

“No!” Her new patient reared up like an angry bear and staggered to his feet. The exertion sent him into respiratory distress again, and his legs gave out, sending him back onto the sofa. Jack rushed over and spoke to Brit in soft, urgent tones.

“He watched his mother bled to death by a physician,” Archie said quietly.

She stared at the red-haired man and whispered, “He could die if we don’t try it.”

“I believe he’d rather take his chances,” Archie replied.

Raven turned back and watched the man struggle to draw breath. He did not show fear or even exhibit signs of panic as she had no doubt most would if their airway were closing. Instead, this patient…Brit…sat straight up and wheezed. “I will not…be…bled like…a pig to the…slaughter.”

Her own chest tightened in empathy, and not a little bit of desperation. She searched her memory for another solution, wishing desperately she could speak to Peter and tap into his vast medical knowledge. Briefly, she considered sending the driver after him. But as she watched, her patient’s skin began to turn a sickly gray. There was no time. Besides, if she wished to become a doctor in her own right, she would need to solve medical crises on her own.

She glanced over at young Chip, still covered in needles, his wide blue eyes wet with tears as he watched Brit struggle on the sofa. And an idea occurred. Perhaps she could use the acupuncture technique. She ran for the text laying open where she’d dropped it on the floor and began to read. Some of the same pressure points she’d triggered on Chip, would open airways regardless of the cause of restriction. But that wouldn’t help the inflammation itself. She jerked open her medical bag and began to rummage through until she found a glass jar of stinging nettle. She carried the herb with her to treat joint and muscle pain in the elderly, but in her study of early medicine, she’d read it had also been used as an anti-inflammatory.

Raven turned to instruct Mr. Fox, but he seemed to have vanished. “Mr. MacCarron!” She called the man over. “I need someone to run to the kitchen and make a strong tea with this herb.”

Jack MacCarron bellowed, “Thompson!”

An older gentleman with the bearing of a soldier raced into the room. “Sir?”

“Listen to Miss Cratchit and do exactly as she says.”

Raven turned to the man. “Place this entire jar of nettles in cheesecloth and steep in a teapot for five minutes.” He took it, but his gaze glued to Brit in horror. A deep fear etched lines around his mouth, his eyes glistening. Whoever Brit was to the people in this room, it went beyond casual friendship.

Raven gave the man a push. “We can still save him. Hurry!”

With no idea if her words held any truth, she watched Thompson turn on his heel and run. Mrs. March hovered in silence, her face a white sheet of anxiety. The wind whipped outside, a draft slipping up Raven’s skirts. She knew from experience giving the woman a chore would be a kindness. “Mrs. March, can you please stoke up the fire.”

“Of course.”

“Doc, do you need my needles?” Chip asked.

“Thank you, but I have plenty. You may remove any needles you can reach.” Her acupuncture kit tucked under her arm, Raven relit the candle beneath the copper pot of lavender and cloves and carried it over to the table by Brit’s head. Wisps of vapor surrounded him as he laid back down, his legs draped haphazardly over the sofa edge. She pulled a chair up beside him and placed her fingers on the pulse in his neck. The beats were faint and too much time passed between his breaths. Opening her kit across her lap, she propped the accompanying text on the table. “Mr. MacCarron, I’m going to have to ask you to remove Mr. Brit’s clothing above the waist.”

Jack did not hesitate but lifted the younger man by the shoulders and tugged off his coat. Raven leaned forward to unbutton Brit’s waistcoat and then his shirt. His dark eyes slit open, his breath a husky rasp. Something flashed behind his gaze, an emotion she couldn’t place…but whatever it was made her skin heat like fire.

Furious with her lack of emotional control, she snapped at Jack, “Keep him sitting up, and don’t allow him to sink back against the cushions.”

He gave a tight nod as Raven reviewed her diagram, selected a needle, and faced the wide expanse of Brit’s naked chest. With a deep breath, she took his muscled arm and stretched it out, placing the first needle in the inside crook of the elbow. Feeling they both needed the distraction, she began to talk, softly explaining her actions. “I’m applying hair-thin needles to pressure points linked to functions within your body. This first one opens up the lungs.”

His eyes hooded, his breath shallow, he didn’t react.

“Breathe, Brit,” she urged as she selected her next needle and placed it on the side of his right wrist. “This point is also for optimal lung function.”

His skin felt so hot to the touch, she stood and leaned behind him, placing a needle at the top of his spine. “This is called GV14, it reduces fever.”

He swayed and Jack carefully steadied him. The pungent vapor of the oils clouded around them as Raven placed several more needles at points along Brit’s arms. She sat and consulted her text. Turning back, she watched his chest rise and fall, the rhythm deeper and steadier than before.

A detached part of her mind marveled at the mass of him. They shared the same skeletal system, but his bones and muscles were hard as marble and more than twice the size of her own. She ran her finger along his left collarbone. “The point here will assist with breathing difficulties.” He watched the path of her finger. “As well as on the opposite side.”

After placing a few more needles along his upper chest, she asked, “How are you feeling now?”

After a moment of his eyes roaming over her face, his gaze met hers and locked in. “Dizzy. You appear to have four…startlingly blue eyes.”

Her heart stopped for a moment. “Did you say four?” Although his breathing had begun to regulate, the mental issue could indicate a continued lack of oxygen. She lifted her hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He tried to focus but then closed his eyes, a half-smile tilting his mouth. “That would depend on…how many arms…you have.”

Brit swayed and Jack gripped his shoulders, his face tight with worry.

Where was that blasted tea?

Raven turned back to her text and ran her finger over the list of pressure points associated with asthmatic reactions, finding one that increased oxygen flow. She located the point on the chart. “Brit, please sit up as straight as you can and…” She cleared her throat. “And pull down the waistband of your trousers a bit.”

Using every ounce of her training to stay removed from what she was doing, she placed her index finger on the taunt skin just below his belly button, found the spot, and placed the needle.

“I have the tea!” Mr. Thompson called as he bustled back into the room.

Raven let out a deep breath, as did her patient. Gathering her courage, she glanced at his face to see his color had returned with a vengeance, red staining his cheekbones. Raven bit her lip and jerked her eyes back to the diagram as Thompson handed Brit a cup of the stinging nettle tea. The strong earthy scent filled Raven’s nose telling her he had brewed it correctly. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson.”

She stood and assessed her patient with a critical eye. “Brit, please drink that tea as quickly as you may without burning your mouth.”

He lifted the cup but arched a black brow in her direction.

After a moment, she realized he awaited her explanation of its purpose. “It will aid in opening your bronchial tubes and hasten the Laudanum through your system. You will need to drink the entire pot.”

He gave a nod and began to drink the hot liquid.

Archie Fox materialized at her side and questioned with a note of pleading. “Is he going to make it?”

Raven watched Brit, his breath still wheezed, but his skin had begun to regain its true olive color. “Yes,” she breathed in amazement. All the emotion she’d held back flooded her eyes. Before anyone could see, she turned and strode to the far side of the room and stopped in front of the window to gaze out at the wind-swept garden. The sun had begun to set, gilding the trees, and turning the few leaves still clinging to the maples a burnt orange.

She couldn’t be sure if her patient had been someone else—someone with less physical strength and presence of mind—if she could’ve saved him. In truth of fact, she did not know how much of his recovery had been her doing or his own will. Either way, a prayer of thanksgiving flooded from her heart, and she knew she would never take the miracle of medicine for granted. Or the deep humility and gratitude that saving a life brought to her.

Her training as a nurse dictated that she have compassion but remain emotionally detached in order to make objective decisions. A dictate that she did not struggle with, customarily. But this man had had a strange effect on her. Perhaps the way he’d come after her when he’d first arrived had cracked her defenses. Or perhaps it was that he was special to everyone in the room—a rare individual who impacted lives in a way that didn’t quickly fade. Brit…she realized she didn’t even know his last name.

“Doc Cratchit, are you feeling all right?”

Composing herself, she turned around to face Chip. “Yes, I am well. And you?”

“I’m marvelous!”

Raven plucked a needle from just behind his ear as he asked, “Is Brit going to be all right?”

She nodded and glanced over at the man perched on the edge of a sofa that he made appear as if it belonged in a doll house. Needles poked out of his skin, but his breathing appeared steady as he spoke with the people gathered around him, including a group of young children and a large dog who’d entered the room when her back was turned. The newcomers began to speak over one another like a nest of magpies.

“Mr. Brit, are you okay?”

“What are those needles?”

“Where’s yer clothes?”

“Do they hurt?”

“Are you sick?”

“Who put those stingers in you?”

The last question was stated in an angry demand that silenced the others. Brit appeared amused as he scratched his leg, and inhaled deeply, but Raven could not have her patient wasting his precious breath.

She stepped up to the circle of children. “Mr. Brit is going to be fine after more fluids and rest.” She shifted her gaze to her patient. “Please continue to drink, sir."

Thompson snapped to attention and poured steaming tea into Brit’s empty cup, and then shooed the children out of the room. The large dog, who at second glance, moved with the slowness of advanced age, stopped in front of Chip who tugged on his shirt and said, “Come on, Brom. Brit is in good hands.” Chip followed after the younger children, reassuring his fellow classmates as he went. “That’s Doc Cratchit. She helped me breathe again.”

Raven found herself smiling.

“I must attend to the children.” Mrs. March bowed her head to Raven. “I am immensely grateful to you, dear.”

Raven dropped into a curtsy and Mrs. March shuffled away.

“Should we move him above stairs to his bed?” Mr. MacCarron called from the sofa.

“Yes, please do, Mr. MacCarron,” Raven replied.

“After what’s just transpired, call me Jack.” His smile lit his blue gaze like the sky cleansed by a hard rain. “We don’t stand on formalities here.”

She smiled. “Jack, then.”

“A wise physician, skill’d our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal,” her patient quoted before draining his cup.

“You’ve read Alexander Pope?” Raven couldn’t hide her shock.

“Despite my earlier behavior, I’m not a Neanderthal, Miss Cratchit.” Brit’s mouth kicked up on one side and her heart did an odd little dance.

“He teaches English and Literature here at Hill House,” Jack clarified. “Or at least, he did.”

“Still do.” Brit stood and began to pull needles from his skin. “I need to go.”

“No, sir!” Raven blocked his path and crossed her arms, forced to look up to meet her patient’s gaze. “Your condition is quite precarious.”

“Go where?” Jack demanded.

“Back to Wexford House to confront my blasted brothers.” Brit jerked the needle from his collarbone. “I’m quite grateful, Miss…”

His dark gaze met hers and she noticed purple rimmed his eyes, the skin around his strong, full lips appeared pale. “I am Miss Raven Cratchit. Did you say Wexford House?”

Brit swayed a bit and sunk back to the sofa. Raven sat beside him and poured him the last of the stinging nettle brew.

“Aye, I said Wexford House. Do you know it?”

Raven, for reasons she could not fathom, did not disclose her betrothal, but replied in a vague, “Well, yes, everyone in society knows Wexford House. What business do you have there? Are you acquainted with the Griffins?”

Brit’s brows lowered and the ironic smirk that twisted his mouth transformed his attractive visage into an angry mask. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the long-lost Earl of bloody Wexford.”