Once Upon A Christmas Past

4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

A lone caroler’s sweet voice drifted to the boy through the crisp night air. “Silent night, holy night…All is calm. All is bright.”

The words of the ancient song lit a long-ago recollection of happiness and family, the details just beyond the boy’s grasp. A contrast to his current circumstances so sharp that he pushed his feet faster lest the tears freeze upon his cheeks. It was Christmas Eve.

The bell tolled four…

Brit watched wonder play across Raven Cratchit’s face. He drank in her dark-fringed eyes and the glossy black sweep of her hair, and noted a warmth in the set of her full-lipped mouth and a vast intelligence behind her gaze that radiated a vivacity beyond mere beauty.

“ You are the missing earl?” she questioned with more than a touch of shock.

“Pray, attempt to hide your amazement. You wound me,” he quipped as he placed a fist over his heart. But his sarcasm cost him, and his breath shuddered in his chest.

“That’s it!” Jack thundered. “I’m escorting you to your bed.”

Raven peered into Brit’s eyes as if she could see his very brain. Brit realized he thought of her as Raven, not Miss Cratchit or Doc Cratchit as Chip favored. He could blame his lack of decorum on his illness but suspected it had more to do with the woman herself.

“Yes, do,” she urged. Then after a brief hesitation, inquired, “Pardon me for asking, but how do you know? You are actually he…the lost earl?”

“Jack did a bit of sleuthing and found that my parents were Lord and Lady Wexford. A solicitor confirmed his findings and presented me with all the necessary papers. It is true.” Even if Brit didn’t wish it.

“Brit, that’s incredible!” Raven exclaimed, her face, her lips, her velvet-draped knee far closer than propriety dictated.

A slow smile spread across his mouth at her use of his Christian name. Perhaps the life-saving bond extended in both directions; a connection which superseded the hideous constraints society would place upon them.

As if she read his thoughts, her eyes darted to his still bare chest then down to their joined knees, and she lurched back. “Pardon me, Lord Wexford.”

Something dark simmered inside him at the sound of the title, but he fought it back as he measured his next words. “Did you know the Griffins had a half brother who had gone missing?”

“Yes. Actually, the missing Earl of Wexford is a legend among high society.”

Brit lifted a brow. “Do tell.”

Raven opened a wooden box fitted with multiple trays and containing tiny slots for each of the individual needles she’d used. She balanced the kit upon her lap and turned to him, her gaze clinical as she plucked the hair-thin apparatus sticking out of his wrist. “Stories of the missing earl have circulated for years, each more outrageous than the last. One popular theory was that the young earl…” She glanced up at his face and corrected herself. “That you became lost in the forest and were eaten by wolves.”

After removing another needle from his arm and placing it in the corresponding slot, she continued. “Some say you were a changeling and spirited away by fairies. While others insist you were born with such a horrible deformity that your parents locked you in a secret room at their country seat and then claimed you had gone missing.”

Brit and Jack exchanged a telling glance over Raven’s head. The two of them had developed a relationship that often did not require words. And Brit easily read his own affront reflected in his mentor’s darkening gaze. As a young Brit had starved in the streets, thieving to survive one more day, the gentry of London had toasted their well-turned-out toes by warm hearths whilst sipping tea and fabricating fantastical fictions about his life. He did not consider himself a sensitive sort of fellow, but it was almost too much to reconcile.

“Are you acquainted with my…er…” Brit almost choked on the word. “…brothers, John and George, then?”

“Yes,” she replied without raising her gaze.

“What did they claim had become of me?”

Raven removed the last needle from his skin and lifted her gaze. “John?”

Brit gave a tight nod, unwilling to examine the sudden churn of his gut at her familiar address or the reddening of her cheeks.

“He has always made his position clear that it would not be discussed. He considered the topic…unseemly.” Her chin took on a firm set. “I do not believe for a moment that he would harm you if that is what you are thinking. I have been under the impression that he and George were quite devastated by the loss of their brother…the loss of you.”

Brit searched her face. He had not expressed his belief that John had attempted to poison his tea. In the limited experience he’d had with ladies of high society—as she obviously was—they did not think far past the end of their well-powdered noses. But she had ascertained his suspicion and refuted it in such a way that he was tempted to believe her.

She closed her kit, stood, and in a formal tone, said, “My professional recommendation is that you rest for the next two days, Lord Wexford. Which means do not get out of bed except to use the water closet. Your body has sustained a serious trauma and needs to recover.”

“I cannot stay in bed for…” But even as Brit protested, a wave of fatigue washed over him, forcing his eyes closed as the room spun.

“I’ll fetch Thompson,” Jack said, striding out of the room. “I’m going to need assistance dragging your sorry arse up two flights of stairs.”

The unchaperoned moment stretched into silence until Raven hefted a large tome, and said, “Make sure to drink as much as you can over the next day to flush the Laudanum from your system.”

Brit nodded as he cracked an eye open and took in her formal velvet gown. “Have I kept you from a social engagement?”

“Well, I—”

“You look a bit dragged out, mate.”

Brit would recognize Archie’s sarcasm anywhere. “Better than you on a good day, Fox.”

“The illness has deluded him, poor beggar.” Archie shook his head at Raven.

“Indeed,” she agreed with an impish smile.

“Ugh…take me to my bed then. I might as well give up on life,” Brit sighed.

Raven’s unguarded laughter spilled out like silvery bells, reviving Brit’s strength. He stood, but Jack rushed into the room with Thompson, and they were instantly on either side to prop him up beneath his arms.

Fox was nowhere to be found.

Brit shook his head. Had Archie been in the room, or had he imagined the entire conversation? In his current state, he couldn’t be certain. Vision spinning, he turned to Jack. “I’ll take a short rest. But that’s all I can promise.”

“I would think the opportunity to have us wait upon you hand and foot would appeal to you, kid,” Jack commented.

Jack was only ten years Brit’s senior and at least a head shorter than him, so the nickname was more predilection than classification.

When Raven gave a disbelieving chuckle, Jack turned a smile her way. “Brit and I go way back. Don’t we, mate?”

“That we do, old man,” Brit patted him on the chest. “That we do.”

Raven had donned a long black coat with a fur collar that tickled the line of her delicate jaw. “I feel you are in capable hands, Lord Wexford. Please send word if you or Chip require further treatment.”

As Jack thanked her, Brit’s voice froze in his throat. But it wasn’t his shortness of breath that stopped him from speaking. He simply did not have the words. The unique woman’s vivid gaze locked on his for a count of three before she turned on the heel of her sensible boot and walked out.

Raven stopped on the covered stoop and watched the first snow of the season drift down in lazy flakes. Whilst she had worked, the world had transformed; the dingy fog crystallized into a flurry of stars. The lawn, hedgerow, and boughs of feathery firs sparkled in shimmering dust. She pushed out a sigh and exhaled her tension one frosty breath at a time. Two lives had been saved that day, but the rush had taken its toll. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and a bit shaky.

Her heart thrummed in her chest cavity, as it always had, but the beat had somehow changed. Like the throb of a song with a fresh tempo dancing through her veins. She couldn’t say if it was from the emotional rush of her success, an over-production of her adrenal glands, or something more…something new.

She’d called for the phaeton to be brought ‘round, but as she stepped onto the sugared walk, her feet crunching into perfect prints in the silvery glacé, she took another step. And then another. And another. She kept going until she’d passed the circle drive, crossed the front garden, and exited the gate to the street. Her fur-lined hood rested on her shoulders as snow melted against her heated cheeks, coating her hair and lashes.

Raven’s parents and siblings awaited her at Wexford house where they would smile and laugh while toasting her ‘joyous union,’ as her mother liked to say. But in that moment, she could not portray the happy bride-to-be. She needed time to process. To re-center herself.

The lane wound down a gradual hill dotted with sprawling estates. The district was not fashionable, each manse in varying levels of disrepair. But the soft air, encapsulated by the snowfall, turned the ordinary street into a winter wonderland. Blessedly alone, a state she rarely found herself in and never out of doors, was bliss. No watching eyes, listening ears, questioning mouths. She could think and not arrange her face into a socially acceptable mien.

At the moment, her expression likely reflected her shock and awe. She had just met the lost Earl of bloody Wexford, as he had so articulately described himself. Laughter escaped her chest, the sound echoing back to her in icy fumes. With no one around to judge her, she tilted her head back and opened her mouth, catching crisp, cold flakes on her tongue. Something like wings flapped and heated her belly.

Lord Brit Griffin.

Every time Raven thought his name, his handsome visage appeared before her mind’s eye and her cheeks caught fire. The man had thundered into her life with the elegance of a rampaging elephant, trampling her precepts of science and shattering defenses she hadn’t realized she’d erected around herself. Her heartbeat tripped forward again. She took deep, slow breaths to regulate her pulse. As a woman of learning, not useless sentiment, she could not account for her frenzied state. But out there all alone in the frozen countryside, she indulged in a moment of undisciplined, deliciously emotional analysis.

He was unlike anyone she’d yet encountered. His gentlemanly facade—and quite a fine facade it was—battled with something untamed and far from predictable. Most men of her age were complete dullards, perfect gentlemen with irrefutable manners and tedious dispositions. She and Belinda had invented a secret game where they would amuse themselves at parties, by predicting the next words spoken by a given gentleman. Ninety percent of the time, they were correct, if off by a word choice or two.

“I declare, you have the…bluest eyes I’ve seen in an age…the creamiest skin…the shiniest hair.”

“My horse is the best stock…my curricle is the fastest…my country estate…my…my…my…”

Not that all men were dimwits, but for what reason Raven could not surmise, the men of her class seemed to mimic one another in effect, speech, and even dress like a parade of well-turned-out penguins. Perhaps that was why John Griffin had caught her attention. He had a jovial disposition and did not prevaricate regarding his opinions.

But Brit Griffin was something else entirely. A paradox of sharp intelligence, fierce determination, wicked wit, and something a bit…wild. As if the parlor was not his natural habitat, in fact, could barely contain him. He’d assured her he was no Neanderthal, and yet, as he’d lay close to death, she’d glimpsed a primeval constitution. The ferocity of a warrior.

Lost in thought, her slipper hit a patch of ice and she pitched back, landing hard on the sidewalk. Heart in her throat, she sat dumbly for a moment as her bottom throbbed. Perhaps silk slippers were not the thing for a winter walk. Belinda would absolutely gaff if she saw her little sister sprawled in the snowfall, noble blue skirts spattered with slush. With a soft smile, Raven assessed herself for injuries, and determining herself fit, steadied her hands on the icy ground.

But before she could gather her legs beneath her, a soft tinkle like a bell rang through the frosty air and a gloved hand appeared, fingers extended for assistance. She started and her gaze snapped up to find an older gentleman bent over her, eyes the silvery gray of sleet. Where had he come from? Raven had been quite certain she was alone.

Years of tutelage in proper societal decorum made her raise her hand to accept the stranger’s assistance. The old man smiled as he tugged her to her feet with surprising strength. He did not appear well turned out, stringy gray hair poking from beneath a dilapidated top hat and ruddy cheeks stained with cold or dirt—or perhaps both—framed a pointed nose and wiry chin. But despite his obvious lack of status, the man glowed with good intentions and a warmth of the familiar, although she felt certain they had never met.

Raven returned his smile as he released her hand. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“Of course, Miss.” He tipped his hat to reveal a frosty rime about his balding head, and holes in tattered gloves.

The chill of the air apparent in shivers that chased down her back, Raven’s concern sharpened. “Good sir, may I offer you some assistance?”

If the Cratchits were known for anything, it was their generosity. Her father enjoyed going to market, especially this time of year, and finding a family without means so that he could buy them a carton brimming with food and whatever gifts he could heap upon them. Just last week, Mrs. Cratchit had invited a woman off the street to sleep in the house and ended up finding her a suitable position in a neighboring household. Peter treated those who could not pay him for a cup of watered brandy or a hand-knitted scarf, which he would turn around and gift to a child on the street. Charity resided in the Cratchit’s very blood. “We have a warm spare room in our home that you are welcome to,” she continued in earnest.

“Very kind, very kind,” the vagrant muttered as he cocked a fuzzy brow and gave a decisive nod. “As I suspected.”

“Suspected?” For the first time, Raven realized it was after dark and she’d forgotten her muff. The skin of her hands ached with cold through the damp kid leather of her gloves, and she could barely feel her toes.

Gaze twinkling, the elderly man asked, “You just left Hill House, did you not?”

“Yes, actually,” she replied. “Treating a patient there. Well, two.”

“Young Chip and strapping Brit, I presume?”

“Why yes, are you acquainted?”

“Quite.” The word came out as a chuckle.

Unsure of the joke, Raven steered the conversation back to the man’s predicament. “My family can offer you shelter for the night. Or will you at least accept a hearty meal?”

He cocked his head, visage alight, as if inspecting a bit of treasure he’d found nestled in a forgotten corner. “Intelligent. Spirited. Kind.” He gazed up into the clear sky, stars winking back at him. “I believe she’ll do nicely.”

A bit unsettled by the man’s random prattle, Raven glanced behind her and up the road. Candles flickered in the windows of a nearby manor house that appeared neglected but habitable. Perhaps the man didn’t require her assistance after all. She turned back. “Is that your home—” Her words cut off abruptly.

The old vagabond had vanished.

Without a trace. Not even a footfall in the freshly fallen snow marked his passage.

Raven spun in a tight circle, taking in the desolate scenery. A chill that had little to do with the cold traced down her spine. “Sir?” Her voice echoed as flurries fell, stinging her cheeks.

With a shake of her head, she turned around and began to walk the way she’d come. Her father had taught her long ago that she could not help those who did not wish for assistance. Although harmless, that man clearly suffered from dementia of the brain and likely did not wish to end up in Bedlam. Not that she could blame him. The barbaric practices of the mental hospital were well known. Raven walked on and said a quick prayer that the man had shelter and someone to care for him.

Cold, tired, and a little lost, she trudged on in search of signs of Hill Orphanage. Had she turned at the cross street or walked straight? And where had her head gone anyway? Silly girlish fantasies, that’s where! Brit Griffin may be mythical in his return from the dead, but he was just a man. Plain and simple.

Before she could decide which direction to take, the smart tap of hooves echoed through the evening air, preceding the phaeton as it came into view around the bend. Gus stood in his seat and pulled the horse to a stop. “Miss Cratchit, whot you doin’ there?”

A cloud crystalized as she breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, Mr. Gus. I needed a bit of fresh air.”

His face folded in gruff lines of disapproval before he smoothed his expression and asked, “Where to, Miss?”

Raven didn’t think long, crashing from her emotional rush, energy leeched from her limbs until she felt like a doll made of rags. “Home, please.” Her warmest dressing gown, a nice cup of peppermint tea, and a light book of mysteries were just the medicine she needed.

The old driver folded out the stairs and took her hand to assist her onto the seat. “Lose a patient, did ye?”

Raven stared at the man’s weathered face in surprise, then remembered he’d driven Peter to house calls for years before she’d started her medical practice. He flipped out his coat and settled beside her, turning to her with expectancy.

“The opposite actually. I saved a boy and a man. Both from varying degrees of respiratory distress. But…”

Before she could gather her thoughts as to how to explain, Gus said, “Get a bit of a ‘igh from it, dontcha? ‘at’s whot Doc Peter always says.”

“Precisely,” Raven answered as she tucked the waiting lap blanket around her legs and Gus snapped the reins, jerking the cart into motion. Conducting a personal conversation of any sort with a servant was decidedly improper, something most in the gentry would never consider. Then again, the Cratchits defied most norms in high society.

For much of her childhood, they had been as poor as church mice in an underprivileged parish. Most evenings were spent huddled around the one fire they could afford to fuel, where they would share a meal rationed among them; a small roast chicken lasting the family of eight two to three days. Tiny Tim would often suck on the bones after the skin and meat had been consumed. But Mother and Father never let them feel deprived. Father was fond of saying, “As long as we have God and each other, we have love. That’s more than some of the wealthiest families possess.”

Her mother had taken in laundry to earn extra money, and the family would make a singing game out of helping her wash and scrub. When Father arrived home before nightfall, they would play Charades or Squeak Piggy Squeak or tournaments of chess with a set he’d inherited from his grandfather.

Even through Tim’s illness, her parents maintained their gratitude. If she overheard her mother crying sometimes at night, the next morning she would be all smiles. And if Tim got a few more hugs or an extra sweet, none of them begrudged him.

Then, one miraculous Christmas morning, Ebenezer Scrooge turned their lives around. After bringing them more food than they usually ate in a fortnight, and toys—oh, the glorious toys—he made Father his partner. Their business not only multiplied exponentially, but because of all the service they did for the poor of the city, Queen Victoria knighted both her father and Mr. Scrooge before he passed. Raven barely remembered their old benefactor, but he lived on as a saint in tales told around the fire.

Now their family was accepted in high society along with old wealth and the aristocracy of London’s elite who normally snubbed rich merchants as upstarts. That, along with her father’s honorary title, had allowed her to make such a smart match with the Earl of Wexford.

Who, she realized with a start, was no longer an earl at all now that his brother had returned from the dead. Had John told her family at dinner? She knew her father didn’t give a fig about titles, he only wanted her well-treated and happy. But still. It must have been quite a surprise to them all. Each of their faces flashed before her as she predicted their reactions around the dinner table; her oldest sister, Martha would soak up every juicy detail to relay to her friends (which Raven would need to put a stop to posthaste), Peter would remain stoic, Matthew would be empathetic, Tim amused, her mother shocked, and her father…her father would wish to know how she felt about it. But each one of them would rally around her with whatever support she needed. Including Belinda, in her way, who would question Raven until she broke down and confessed all.

Above and through all things, The Cratchits stuck together. Which made them quite an extraordinary family.

As they turned a corner, a squall blew flakes that had turned glacial into her face, the cold seeping into her bones. Abandoning her dreams of a roaring fire and a book nestled in her lap, Raven shouted over the wind, “Gus, I’ve changed my mind. Take me to Wexford House in Mayfair.”