Once Upon A Christmas Past

7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

S crooge House loomed just beyond the gate. The carriage turned a curve, and the boy released his grip, momentum flinging him across the icy pavement. He teetered dangerously. The skin of his face, previously frozen stiff, began to heat with terrible trepidation as he careened toward a drift of wintry muck. He shifted one foot behind him and dug in the heel of his boot. But instead of acting as a brake, his legs slipped out from under him, and he soared into the air.

The bell tolled seven…

“I do hope you’ll be comfortable here, Brit,” John said. “My offer still stands to move out of the main quarters.”

Brit walked over and parted the draperies of the single window, overlooking the alley and roofline of the mews. A stale scent permeated the room as if no one had set foot in it for years. But it was clean with a large four-poster, mahogany bedstead, heaped with a feather mattress, navy coverlet, and a plethora of tasseled pillows. A painting of a ship tossed in turbulent seas hung above the bed. The handles of the wardrobe were tiny brass anchors, and a ship’s wheel had been engraved on the washstand.

Brit peered into a circular mirror that resembled a porthole, noting the pale cast of his skin and dark shadows beneath his eyes. Ignoring a wave of fatigue, he turned to John. “Whose room was this?”

“Grandfather Thera stayed here when he visited. In his younger years, he captained a frigate much like that one.” John nodded to the seascape.

Brit’s birth records had listed his mother’s maiden name as Alexandra Thera. This room had been designed for her father. My grandfather . Eager to learn more, he turned his attention to a painting above the hearth. Stark white windmills on a hill overlooking blue-tiled roofs and an expansive sapphire sea. He stepped closer. Something in the open sky and deep waters called to him. “Where is this?”

“Santorini. Mother’s homeland.”

Brit had not considered the possibility that he could have surviving relations in Greece. His mother’s family. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets to disguise his excitement as he faced John. “Are our grandparents still…there?”

John walked over to a narrow door beside the wardrobe. “No, Grandmother Thera passed when I was a baby, and Grandfather died…” He paused and tapped his chin. “Some ten years ago. Perhaps eight. I’m not certain.”

“Do we have any family in Santorini?”

John’s brows popped up as if he’d never considered the possibility. “I suppose. Cousins and such.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Now, this door leads…”

“You don’t know if we have relations alive in Greece? What about here in England? Father’s family?”

John opened a door to reveal another closed door on the other side and turned, his brows lowered in a scowl. “Do you mean your father’s family?”

Brit rocked back on his heels and clenched his jaw on an angry retort. John did not have a problem owning Brit’s father’s title and wealth, but didn’t consider himself part of the Griffin family? He stared hard at his half brother but then let out a slow breath. He’d come to Wexford House determined to start afresh. “Yes, the Griffins. I assumed since Father legally adopted you, that you would have maintained relations with them.”

With a lift of his chin and a look of patient indulgence, John replied, “Ah…I see, you are searching for connections. How charming. Your father’s parents died before I met them. His only sister is a spinster. Aunt Gert comes around on occasion, but she prefers to stay ensconced with her companion in Brighton.” Before Brit could inquire to any cousins, John clarified, “Her female companion. She never had any children.”

How convenient , Brit thought. No other male relatives meant there had been no one to contest John’s inheritance of the earldom. Again, he wondered if his half brothers had thought twice about him after Father had given up the search.

“Now, tomorrow eve we will be hosting a dinner for my betrothed and her family. I will send Bert, my valet, to assess your wardrobe for the appropriate attire.”

Brit crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I met with a tailor on New Bond Street today. And plan to make inquiries for my own valet. I’m all set.”

John assessed Brit’s tweed jacket and worn waistcoat with a missing top button. “A custom suit takes days to complete, even if you paid for a rush. I will have Bert alter something of mine for you to wear to the dinner.”

“That won’t be nec—”

“Surely you do not plan to wear…” He waved his hand at Brit’s off-the-rack jacket that fit the breadth of Brit’s shoulders but flapped loose around his waist, paired with thick, workman’s trousers. “The garb of an impoverished proctor?”

Brit clenched a fist inside of his pocket. He did not like being at such a disadvantage. Admittedly, he knew next to nothing about being part of the gentry, but neither did John need to throw it in his face at every opportunity. “Thank you, I will accept Bert’s assistance,” he replied, fighting to keep the annoyance from his tone.

John had moved to the door but turned back before exiting. “You are staking your claim as earl, then?”

He made it sound as if Brit’s title were up for debate. As if the first person to drive their flag into the ground could lay claim to the earldom. Brit straightened his shoulders and strode forward, holding John’s gaze as he spoke each word with deliberation. “This is not the California gold rush, brother . The title has been mine since birth.” He stopped when they were nose to nose, like rams battling for territory. “Do you plan to contest the will?”

John’s eyes took on a hard cast, but prudently, he stepped back through the open doorway. “That would be unwise.”

“Good.” Brit let a bit of the tension flow out of his stance. “To answer your question, yes, I plan to claim my birthright. Mr. Veck is already working on the papers.” He would not mention the marriage stipulation, but the deadline grew larger in Brit’s mind with each passing hour. There had been no one who had captured his attention in ages. Not since the dalliance with Jessica, a neighboring dairy farmer’s daughter, who had ended up marrying a childhood beau who had inherited a large, if run-down, estate in Hertfordshire.

No one, that is, except…a girl with a pair of fine blue-bordering–on-violet eyes.

“Then we will make the official announcement on Sunday,” John stated, regaining Brit’s attention. “The aristocracy will be…ecstatic with excitement at your return from the dead.” Some dark emotion flickered across John’s face, before he muttered, my lord , bowed his head, and took his leave.

Brit shut the door and walked back to the hearth. He’d engaged in territorial rows with some of the vilest thugs in London, bludgers that would give a toff like John Griffin nightmares. Yet, Brit knew this was not some backstreet brawl. The upper crust played by different rules entirely. He needed a guide, someone who could bring him up to speed quickly and help him navigate the shark-infested parlors of London’s elite.

He slumped into a chair and squeezed his aching temples. Mrs. March was the only lady he knew that had any connections, but she’d been out of society so long…the dark-fringed, violet-blue eyes returned, sparking some sort of fire in his chest. Miss Raven Cratchit was brilliant, connected, and a lady he most definitely wanted to learn more about. He sat up, the decision giving him a mission, finally something he could control.

Brit had been feeling a bit ill, lately. Monday, he would pay a call upon the doctor.

Raven snuggled into layers of blankets as the open carriage rolled down the thoroughfare. Scents of wood smoke and roasting chestnuts curled through the air and settled on her tongue as a frosty breeze pushed back her fur-lined hood and tugged strands of dark hair across her cheeks. She adored London in winter, most especially Christmastime. The fog lifted, and the city felt poised for a fresh start, the air crisper, cleaner.

Gus clucked to the horses, and the wheels slowed as they turned onto Grosvenor Square. Twilight bathed the piazza, gilding the pine needles and junipers, sparkling with frost. Raven inhaled their perfume mixed with the tang of freshly tilled earth. An initiative to make the courtyard into a park-like setting for its residents had come earlier in the fall, just in time for the season. Only residents who lived in the square had a key to the gated area, making it a safe haven for strolls and picnics, alfresco concerts, and midnight interludes.

Midnight interludes? Even as she questioned the errant thought, the image of a half-shadowed face tilting down toward hers, dark waves of hair tumbling over a broad forehead as a large hand warmed her waist, sent her pulse fluttering.

What in the world was wrong with her? She was eight and ten, for heaven’s sake, far past time to put away romantic fancies. Many of her friends from Ms. Goodman’s Finishing School had been married for over a year. Maryann Hattburt was already a mother of two.

But as they drew nearer to her betrothed’s residence, the possibility of seeing Brit Griffin—this time as his brother’s fiancée—had her shoving the woolen blanket from her lap and parting her coat.

She’d dressed with extra care in one of the new gowns her mother and father had commissioned for her from Paris. Her mother had justified that she must be turned out well for her new station in life. But Raven knew Mama secretly enjoyed spoiling her girls to make up for their lack as children. And perhaps a bit of guilt over Belinda. The passing gas lamps a blur, Raven’s heart squeezed. She was rarely at a loss for how to help someone. But her sister’s dilemma defied logical resolutions.

With effort, Raven tugged her mind back to the present and smoothed her gown. The exquisite creation, designed to match the stones of her engagement ring, was in a modern style. The alternating peacock-blue and emerald-green panels draped and tucked around the skirt in a Grecian style, their bulk gathered in the back in a bustle. The gown tickled the edges of propriety with its fitted bodice of sapphire silk overlaid with black, and scalloped lace that made up the sheer, three-quarter-length sleeves. Belinda had voiced her jealousy that Raven wore only a few starched petticoats beneath, instead of the traditional metal crinoline.

The more tapered cut of her skirt and its flirty layers would surely turn a few heads, and perhaps ignite gossip, but Raven was no stranger to slander against her character. In her doctoring role, she’d been called everything from a harlot to a witch. She’d learned to deal with the hurtful labels by relaying them to Bel in the privacy of their home. They’d laughed themselves silly when an old dowager had pronounced, in an entirely serious tone, that clever girls die alone surrounded by cats. This, after Raven had discharged a turnip from the choking woman’s throat.

But Raven did not practice medicine for adoration or even respect. She felt called to do it. Since those torturous days watching Tiny Tim suffer, and the helplessness she’d experienced as he’d wasted away before her eyes, she had known it was what she’d been born to do. Not just to assist male doctors or nurse people back to health, but to save lives. And perhaps in some small way, alter the limits placed upon her gender.

With a command from Gus, the vehicle lurched to a stop in front of the graceful four-story townhome. Every window of Wexford House glowed with gas lanterns framed by fresh pine wreaths, topped with golden bows. Festive, yet elegant. Understated.

Raven frowned as another vehicle pulled forward in front of them, the Barnacles alighting with their two young daughters. Raven’s frown deepened. Clarissa and Clementine Barnacle were twins, their golden curls and dimples a thin disguise for the darkness beneath their polished exteriors. Their father, a Crimean War hero, followed his daughters and wife up the cobbled walk. Liveried servants assisted the girls along the slippery patches, their giggles giving Raven a chill that had little to do with the setting of the sun.

Belinda leaned forward and assured, “You will bring life and warmth to this place, Rave.”

Raven jerked her gaze to her sister. “What?”

“Do not be rude, dear,” their mother admonished from beside her on the bench seat. “Such exclamations are not ladylike.”

“Let her speak as she wishes in private, Emily,” Father said, angling Raven an indulgent smile.

“Well, we are about to be in a very public setting, and as the future Countess of Wexford she cannot be squawking like a costermonger when someone wishes to gain her attention.” Mother lifted her chin.

Raven swallowed. She had neglected to tell her parents of Brit and his potential claim on the earldom; that, in point of fact, he was the earl by birth. Perhaps the announcement of his return had changed this intimate engagement dinner into a soiree in truth because she turned to find two more vehicles lining up behind them.

Bel beckoned Raven forward, so they leaned with their heads close. “I only meant you will infuse this household with Christmas spirit.”

Raven gave a nod as Belinda rose up and then glanced behind before turning back and hissing, “Did you know the Barnacles would be in attendance? And the Tugbys and Countess Waldegrave!”

A railroad tycoon, Mr. Tugby was landed gentry like the Cratchits, but without the knighting. Countess Waldegrave had dedicated her life, and her departed husband’s fortune, to building churches throughout London. They were the crème de la crème of high society.

The carriage lurched forward and then stopped at the imposing columns of the entrance. Raven caught Belinda’s eye, her own nervous excitement reflected in her sister’s stunned gaze. She glanced down at the heavy ring fitted over her ebony gloved finger, and then back up at her sister’s sympathetic face. The presence of the elite could only mean one thing—the lost earl had returned to Wexford House.