Once Upon A Christmas Past

5. Chapter 5

Chapter five

A family, so large they blocked the walk, forced the boy into the muck-filled street. He counted six children of various ages, the youngest a frail boy carried in his father’s arms. Their clothes were ragged, not much better than his own, but they laughed and talked excitedly, one of the girls lifting her voice in song. As the boy rounded the group, he met the singing girl’s periwinkle gaze. Of their own accord his feet slowed, and he tipped his cap to her. She smiled. And for a moment, the world fell silent.

The bell tolled five…

Brit woke with a start, drenched in sweat, heart racing as if he were sprinting to beat that cursed church bell once again. Blimey. He hadn’t thought about that wretched night in ages. Old Scrooge and his blasted stew. For so many reasons, none of them good, that man had changed the course of his life.

Brit ran a hand over his face and opened burning eyes. The parted draperies admitted a golden beam of sun that traversed the dark wood floor, cut across the blue and brown wool rug, and up his crammed floor-to-ceiling bookcase, lighting the spines of Gulliver's Travels, The Corsair, Robinson Crusoe, and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The beloved titles grounded him in the present. Each tome chosen with care to add to his ever-expanding collection. It was his only extravagance beyond a new suit each year and shoes every season.

The MacCarrons paid him a generous salary that he budgeted to the penny. He set aside ten percent for personal expenses, such as clothing or the occasional foray into the City, ten percent for books, and eighty percent went directly into his savings account. As long as he lived at the orphanage, his room and board cost him nothing, and he’d learned long ago to have a contingency plan for all possible outcomes. His nest egg gave him comfort and shut down the street kid that yammered inside him whenever he purchased a gift or rare book.

Brit shivered and noticed the fire had faded to embers. A glance at the clock on his bedside table told him he’d slept through the night and into late morning. Shocked by his self-indulgence, he threw back the covers and sat up, only to have a sharp pain grip his brain. That was when the memory of his near death, and subsequent treatment by the captivating Raven Cratchit, forced him back to his pillow.

The woman’s enchanting face and the memory of her soothing touch gave way to the knowledge that he was still the Earl of bloody Wexford, and his newly found brothers had attempted to murder him. A rancid start to his day to be sure.

He squeezed his eyes closed again. “She should have let me die.”

“No way I’m letting that happen, mate.”

Brit squinted enough to watch Chip carry a tray of food into the room, the boy’s blond curls clean and shiny, his skin glowing with health. Brit let out a sigh of relief and then a realization made him demand, “Why are you not restricted to bedrest?”

Chip set the tray on the table and propped his hands on his hips, freckled nose in the air. “Because I have the constitution of a bull.”

Bracing himself for the pain this time, Brit rose to prop himself up on an elbow. “And what does that make me?”

“A foul pig based on the stench you’re puttin’ off!” The boy moved to the window, threw open the drapes, and lifted the window to let in a blast of frigid air.

“I’ll admit a bath may be in order.” Gingerly, Brit sat up and planted his feet on the floor. Like a newborn colt, he stood, made his slow, dizzy way to the sitting area, and flopped into his cushioned reading chair. “If you insist upon opening the blasted window, at least stoke up the fire.”

“Aye, your mighty Lordship,” Chip quipped with a bow.

“Ugh…not you too.” Brit slid lower in his seat. “I thought at least you would not alter your opinion of me. I’m no more a Lord than you are.”

After throwing a few planks of wood into the grate and stoking up the flames, Chip turned around, his face an odd combination of concern and resolve. “But you are an earl, ain’t you?”

Brit took the opportunity to down a glass of juice, the cool liquid soothing his head instantly. The boy sat in the chair opposite him and stared him down unblinking. An intimidation tactic Brit had taught him a bit too well.

The night he’d met Chip had been one of the worst storms Brit had ever experienced. Streets in the slums flooded quickly, creating rivers of garbage and human waste. He’d scored a fat wallet at the first strike of lightning and then three more as the lily-livered toffs struggled with brollies and scurried for higher ground. His coat bulging with loot, he’d skipped through the rain, whistling a tune in anticipation of sharing his windfall with Archie and the rest of the gang, when he’d heard a baby’s cry. He’d stopped in the middle of the street, icy water sloshing into his boots, and seen a toddler crouched in the doorway of Barnard's Inn.

A lump of a man stuck his head out the door. “I told ye, I ain’t got nothin’ for a street rat. Now move on!” He’d slammed the door with such force the wood hit the child’s back, knocking the sobs right out of him.

As Brit had drawn closer, he could see the boy was no more than four or five years old, the rags that hung on his spindly arms caked in filth. “Are you hungry?” he had asked without preamble.

Blue eyes the size of saucers had lifted at Brit’s voice and the tiny boy gave a nod, his chest heaving.

“Come on, then.” At Brit’s gesture, Chip had followed him all the way to his hideout without another peep.

They’d been thick as thieves ever since. Quite literally. Brit had taught Chip everything he’d known about the craft of thieving, and the boy had taken to it like a Copper to the pastry shop. Reversing the process had proved a bit more difficult. No matter how many etiquette lessons Mrs. March put Chip through, he still clung to many habits from his past; the reticence to trust, the charm that disarmed and manipulated.

“First off, if Mrs. M heard you say ‘ain’t’ she would tan your hide.” Brit picked up a crispy piece of bacon and took a bite. “Secondly, yes, I am the heir to an earldom.”

Chip leaned forward eagerly. “How rich are you?”

Brit thought of the properties and assets Mr. Veck had listed, and his head spun. He closed his eyes for a moment, unsure if the dizziness was rooted in his ailment or the shock he still experienced at his shift in identity. He’d never seen himself as more than a street kid who lucked into a cushy position with the MacCarrons. Unlike Chip, he’d taken to decorum lessons with unnatural ease. Or quite naturally, as it turned out, given his parentage. He’d thrived in the academic environment as well; partial to stories that expanded his mind to other times, worlds, and people he would never have occasion to meet, stories of relationships layered and complex, mysteries both thrilling and hopeful. Now he had the privilege of introducing his students to the books that had shaped his life, and he taught them how to use words to fashion their own destinies far from the destitution of London’s ghettos.

Even if Olivia believed he was squandering his potential, as she’d often said when she’d encouraged him to find a position outside of the orphanage, he would miss watching the children’s faces light up when they read their first words or when they heard a story that expanded their limited perspective. Henceforth, his life would consist of managing properties, handling assets, and fulfilling his noble obligation to sit in The House of Lords. Dry, logical, practical duty.

“Should I send for the Doc?” Chip asked.

Brit’s eyes popped open. “No. I’m quite all right.” To prove it, he picked up his plate and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. The last thing he needed was a blasted crow poking and prodding him. Even if that crow bore more resemblance to a graceful starling. He gulped down a mouthful of weak tea, disgusted by his sappy thoughts.

“I’m feeling better by the moment. And to answer your earlier question, yes, I am now richer than King Midas…if…” He set down his plate with a plunk. “I marry by Christmas.”

“ This Christmas?”

Brit nodded.

“In four weeks?” Chip leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees.

“Yes.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“My fortune and the earldom revert to my nearest male relation. Which, it would seem, is my half brother John.” Brit ran a hand over his face, part of him wondering if he cared all that much. The money and power did not move him, but his parent’s legacy, the only thing that connected him to his birth family… that he could get behind. He would fulfill his birthright if only to honor them.

“Millie down at the bakery always gives you an extra sweet bun,” Chip said as he attempted to pinch a piece of bacon from Brit’s plate. Brit smacked his knuckles, the meat falling neatly back to the salver.

Chip sat back, undeterred. “Helga, the governess next door stops by at least once a week to borrow a book from you. And the butcher’s daughter hangs around after her deliveries until she speaks to you personal-like.”

Amused by the boy’s matchmaking efforts, Brit chuckled. “Chip, I cannot marry just anyone…”

“What about Miss Olivia’s cousin, Violet’s younger sister? She’s…” He moved his hands in the shape of an hourglass and wiggled his brows.

“It has nothing to do with appearance, Chip. I now have to marry a highborn lady.”

“Why?” The boy grimaced comically.

“My future wife will become a…” He thought for a moment on the proper title. “Countess.”

Chip’s face crumpled. “You’re truly leaving us, then?”

Brit stared at this boy who was more a brother to him than the Griffins ever could be, and his heart gave a lurch. “Yes, as soon as I am able. But I promise I’ll come back at least twice a week. And you can come visit me.” The thought of the rough and tumble orphan cruising around the Griffins’ upscale Mayfair townhome, wreaking havoc with the servants and his half brothers, lifted Brit’s spirits considerably. “Yes. First opportunity, I will have you come for an extended stay.”

“I could never fit into some noble toff’s household.” Chip stared at the floor dejectedly.

“Nor will I, but it’ll be a right sight us trying, won’t it?” Brit grinned wickedly and waved the last bit of bacon under Chip’s nose. Who, never one to turn down an offer of food of any sort, snatched it and shoved it into his mouth.

“That it will, my good man.” A mischievous smile that Brit knew well lit up Chip’s eyes. “That it will!”

“Well, that was a certified nightmare,” Belinda said by way of greeting as she barged into Raven’s room without so much as a good afternoon. “Not that you care,” she continued, flouncing into a chair by the hearth.

Raven finished writing the sentence in her journal where she documented her medical successes and failures and then placed the pen back in its stand before turning in her desk chair. “By the time I arrived, everyone had already gone.”

“Did you at least speak to Lord Wexford? Explain why you could not be bothered to show up to your own engagement dinner?”

Raven opened her mouth to correct Belinda on John Griffin’s title change and then closed it again. Had he not told her family about his lost brother’s return? And why not? Surely if he had shared such a juicy tidbit of gossip, Bel would’ve woken her at dawn and badgered her for details.

“Why do you appear as if you’ve swallowed a slug?” Belinda asked tartly.

When Raven did not answer, her sister continued. “It was dreadfully awkward, you know. Sitting around the dinner table, Mother and Father trying to speak around the elephant missing from the room.” She smirked. “So to speak.”

“Yes, I imagine it was,” Raven replied as her mind turned back to a pair of midnight-dark eyes fastened to her face as he fought for life, an invisible cord knitting between them with each hard-won breath. Stories spun behind that gaze, so much life lived in Brit’s short years. What circumstances had carved the hardship and pain around his mouth? The strength and hope in his gaze? How had he ended up teaching literature at Hill Orphanage? Where had he been all of these missing years? And more importantly, why hadn’t she told him she was betrothed to his brother?

The missing Earl of Wexford, indeed.

“Lucy Anne Cratchit, please attend the conversation at hand!”

Raven’s gaze whipped to her sister’s face who had just channeled their mother with such clarity that Raven’s stomach dropped as it did when she’d broken the rules and discipline was about to befall her. In which case, their parents always addressed her by her name given at birth. Lucy Anne spoke of preciousness and frills, which did not suit her in the least. Thus, the nickname her late grandmother had coined in reference to her hair being ‘as black as a raven’s wing’ had stuck.

“That’s better. Now, please tell me what has you so abstracted,” Bel prompted.

Raven turned fully around. “Did John not tell the family anything…interesting last night?”

Belinda’s mouth twisted in perplexity. “Interesting? Other than the new land he acquired in Brighton? Or the horseflesh he traveled to Shropshire to preview? Or some political pish-posh about The International Workingmen's Association he and Father debated all through the entrée course.” Her gray eyes brightened. “Oh sister, you should have seen the ham croquettes!”

Raven smiled. They both shared a healthy—or perhaps more precisely, an obsessive—love of food. No doubt due to the lack thereof in their early childhood. The Griffins’ new French chef, who it was rumored John had paid an exorbitant salary to leave un restaurant très chic in Paris, had the gentry in a whirl. Distracted by their shared passion, Raven questioned, “And the pudding course?”

“Absolutely divine! A stunning crystal trifle with layers of sherry-soaked cake, jam, custard, and whipped cream, topped with fresh berries from the Griffin’s hot house.” She wilted into her chair with a long-enduring sigh.

“I am truly sorry about not being there. When I arrived, you had all left and John had gone to his gentleman’s club.”

Not one to sit still for long, Belinda began to wander about the room, stopping at Raven’s dressing table and lifting her ring-stand. “Are you ever going to wear his ring?” She picked up the gold ensemble of three large gems; an enormous round emerald flanked by two square-cut sapphires.

Raven turned back to her medical notebook, grasped her pen, dipped it in ink, and began writing. “It is too large for practicality.”

“He wears your ring. And your hair in a locket on his watchchain.”

“How do you know?” Raven asked without looking up. She’d just remembered to note the exact ratio of the nettle tea preparation she’d given Brit.

“I saw it hanging beside his watch the twenty times he pulled it from his pocket to check the time during dinner. Do you at least wear the necklace he gave you?”

“It itches my skin. I never could abide silver.”

“Does your locket match his?”

“Er…yes?”

“I knew it! You didn’t purchase his engagement ring or the locket. Mother did! Did she sneak in here and clip a lock of your hair while you slept?”

Raven spun around. “I don’t know what you expect from me. I’m not prone to flights of fancy. Like some I know.” Her cheeks heated as she remembered her earlier thoughts about the new Earl of Wexford.

“That is low, sister. Perhaps if you had taken your nose out of your books long enough to know love, you would not condemn me for my depth of feeling!” Belinda crossed her arms under her chest and turned her face away, but not before Raven noticed a shimmer of tears.

“I’m sorry, Bel. Truly.” She stood and implored her sister. “Look at me, please.”

She turned, her bottom lip trembling.

“You are vivacious and spirited. There’s nothing wrong with that and I did not mean to imply differently. I know you’re still hurting. That ass, Lord Eaton likely already regrets losing the best thing that ever happened to him. Married to that dried-up old baroness.”

“Raven!” Bel squawked. “That is unkind in the extreme.” But her mouth twitched, and her eyes regained their twinkle.

Compelled to make up for all her shortcomings, Raven motioned Belinda over to the bed. “I have a secret.”

Bel’s eyes lit up like Christmas candles as she threw herself upon the coverlet, propping her head in her hand. “Ohhh…do tell!”

“Only if you promise upon pain of death that you will not tell a soul.” Raven knew she would not tell anyone, but still claimed the vow they used to make to one another as children.

“There are other things more painful,” Bel muttered, but then sat up and gave a solemn nod. “I have nothing of value to offer.”

A token had always been given to the person telling the secret and if the other divulged their confidence, they had the right to either keep or destroy the other’s prized possession. Raven met her sister’s gaze. “This is a secret worth far more than a hair ribbon or even a book. But the truth will likely leak out soon enough, so I will accept your word as your vow.”

“Yes, I promise. Now get on with it!” Bel bounced up and down on the mattress.

“Yesterday after I treated the child at Hill Orphanage, another man stumbled through the doors on the brink of death. He was out of his mind and attempted to attack me. He was so large and powerfully built that it took two men to hold him back.”

Bel’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Well, I soon discovered he’d had an adverse reaction to Laudanum that was impairing his breathing…and his judgment.”

“Oh, my!”

“Once he had been calmed, he would not allow me to bleed him because as a child he had watched as his mother died while being bled. I was forced to use unconventional treatments, a combination of herbs, acupuncture, and breathing techniques that…”

Belinda waved her hand in a circular motion, not the least interested in a medical lecture.

“Yes, well, it turns out the man is a teacher of literature at the orphanage and just discovered his true identity as…” She took a deep breath and her sister leaned forward. “He is the lost Earl of Wexford.”

Bel reared back, her eyes wide. “No!”

“Yes, I believe it is true.”

“The mad earl who was locked away until he took his own life?”

“That is a rumor, Bel.”

“John and George Griffin’s lost half brother?”

“Yes.”

“Then that means…this man is the true Earl. Not John,” Bel asserted.

“Perhaps.”

“Where has he been? What happened to him?”

“I am not certain.” Raven shook her head and then thought, But I’d really like to know.

Belinda clutched her hands in front of her chest, her eyes going starry. “What’s he like?”

To her intense mortification, Raven felt heat rush up her neck and into her face. “He is…” How could she describe his presence? His fierce strength? His unconventional appeal? Her words and feelings clashed and crumbled inside her head until she said, “He is…different.”

“Well, that’s articulate.” Her sister rolled her eyes, then really looked at her. “Wait. Why are you blushing?”

Raven’s next words popped out before she could stop them. “I saw his naked chest.”

“Oh! Now we’re getting somewhere!” Belinda rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

“It’s not like that.” Raven rose from the bed and opened her wardrobe to search for her boots. Or perhaps to hide the deepening of her blush. Brit’s chest, smooth skin over hard muscle, had not strayed far from her thoughts in the last twenty-four hours. She’d seen more than her share of unclothed men. She had two brothers after all, but they were thin and pale. And, well…her brothers. She’d treated many males working alongside Peter, none of which had caused the stirring of her attention. “He had to partially disrobe for me to treat him. It was purely in the name of science.”

“Purely.” Bel drew out the word, so it sounded like the purr of a cat. Then her eyes widened. “What does Lord Griffin think of his brother’s return?”

Raven sunk into her desk chair, smacked down by a mortifying realization. Not once, since meeting Brit Griffin, had she thought about John’s feelings. She’d rushed to her engagement dinner with thoughts for her family. And for herself, to save face, if truth be told. But with the appearance of the rightful heir, John very well may lose his title, his fortune, his very identity.

“Peter is attending at Newgate, so my afternoon is free,” Raven said contemplatively. “But I need moral support when I go to Wexford House.” She paused in pulling on her boot and lowered her brows in a stern expression. “One who will not wag her tongue regarding the missing earl’s return.”

“Reporting for duty.” Bel snapped her heels together and lifted her hand to her head in salute. “No one listens to me anyway. But I’ll only accompany you if we can go Christmas shopping after. New Bond Street is glorious this time of year!”

“Of course,” Raven answered with a chuckle even as her stomach knotted in dread. How much more of her absenteeism would John take? And how did he feel about his long-lost brother coming back from the dead to claim his title? Whether she felt ready or not, she would find out soon.