Once Upon A Christmas Past

13. Chapter 13

Chapter thirteen

S omething rose within the boy, something that lay dormant but always awoke when he needed it most. He squared his small shoulders and the words flowed from him without his seeming volition. “What right have you to disparage this sacred night, Mr. Scrooge? You are rich enough!”

With a glower, Scrooge returned, “And yet that gold does not fill my belly, does it now?”

And with that pronouncement, the old man stepped back into the warmth of the house and slammed the door shut in the boy’s face.

It took two days for Brit to work up his courage. So, when he stopped on the Cratchit’s doorstep, he started to engage the knocker, then lowered his hand again. He knew little of making formal calls and less of courtship rules, especially when the lady was already spoken for. What the bloomin’ hell was he thinking to show up at her home without an invitation?

Another, darker voice whispered, And a street kid in a monkey suit, at that.

Brit turned around, skipped down the three stairs to the walk, then stopped, pivoted, and stared up at the cheery blue door. God did not give you a spirit of fear… “Nor have I ever been a bloody coward,” he muttered and climbed back up the steps, envisioning the glow in Raven’s eyes when she looked at him. He had not imagined their connection. This woman was worth the potential for humiliation.

With a nod, he banged the knocker three times, then straightened his coat, and lifted his chin, rehearsing his introduction and reason for visiting. As he heard footfalls approaching, it occurred to him belatedly that he should have a card of some sort. He patted his pockets as if one might magically appear.

A man who must have been a hundred years old, opened the door with a gap-toothed smile and asked in a cockney accent, “May I help ye, young sir?”

Responding to the informality and friendliness of the servant, Brit smiled. “I’m Brit Griffin, here to call upon Miss Cratchit.”

The man’s smile widened, pale eyes blinking rapidly. “My days! If it ain’t the new Lord Wexford. Come in, come in! I’m Trotty, the butler. Tis a high pleasure ta meet ye, m’lord.”

Brit should have anticipated that he would not need a calling card when his return from the “dead” had been front page news in all the London papers from the society sheets to The Times . The sketches of him ranged from caricatures that exaggerated his jawline and inflated the width of his shoulders, to the eerily accurate portraits that allowed people on the street to bow or call out his name. Quite disconcerting if he was honest.

With a nod to Trotty, Brit entered the warmth of the foyer and thought for a moment that he’d stepped into a forest, so strong was the scent of pine. Evergreen branches draped over every eve and doorway, each swag dotted with crimson bows, and tied with candied orange slices. He turned and nearly jumped as he came face to face with a pair of life-sized nutcrackers, standing sentinel on either side of the main corridor; one in the royal guardsmen attire of a black, bearskin cap, signature red coat, and gold buttons, while the other wore a red and green plaid kilt, a fuzzy tam, and held realistic-looking bagpipes.

Peals of laughter echoed down the hall as the butler took Brit’s top hat, and said, “Ye’ve come at a most opportune time, m’lord.”

“Why’s that?” Brit asked, handing over his greatcoat.

The little man’s eyes sparkled. “Tis the Cratchit’s Christmas Spectacular.”

Brit arched his brows as he spotted a skirted figure dart across the end of the corridor. “I need two more minutes!” she laughed.

Had that been Raven? She looked like a young girl with her dark hair streaming behind her, a red bow waving like a streamer among the strands.

“This way, if ye please.” The butler motioned for Brit to follow him into the house. A snippet of Up on the Housetop was sung off-key followed by a masculine chortle, the same voice beginning a countdown from five. “Four…three…”

“I cannot reach to place…”— there was a delicate grunt— “my star!”

Brit turned toward the sound of the familiar voice calling out in distress to find a small library, the shelves stuffed to overflowing, the floor and tables and even the chairs cluttered with haphazard piles of books. Raven balanced on one foot, straining to place a pearl-covered star on the pinnacle of a pine.

“…two…” the voice boomed from the other room.

Brit, quickly assessing that this was some sort of competition, rushed into the room, plucked the star from Raven’s hand, and placed it over the top spindle just as the man finished his countdown and shouted, “Time’s up! Step back from your trees, Cratchits!”

Raven gave a start and whirled to face him, a rebuke dying on her lips as their eyes met. “Brit!”

He offered a crooked grin. “The one and only.”

“What are you…I mean…” Raven trailed off, her cheeks flags of pink, careless waves falling around her face from her partially pulled back hair, her glorious lavender eyes never leaving his face. The always-in-control doctor blinked up at him as if he were some sort of wonderous apparition—her gaze splendidly unguarded.

Brit’s heart pounded too fast, the space between them charged like the air after a lightning strike. His gaze roved down her face to her full, parted lips, slender throat, and her chest heaving as if she could not catch her breath. His limbs felt suddenly heavy, his thoughts dull.

“Raven, you better not be cheating,” a voice said from the doorway.

Raven turned first. “Of course not, Tim. How dare you imply such treason!” Her words were softened with a grin.

Brit raked the hair off his forehead and turned to find a young man in his early teens with enormous brown eyes, a slim build, and an elfin face.

Tim’s gaze narrowed on Brit. “Not even with your staarrr?” he drew out the last word tauntingly.

Raven’s shoulders slumped.

“Ha! Caught you!” Tim did a quick dance as he pointed at Raven.

“I did very little,” Brit explained. “The tree was already glorious without the star.”

“No worries, mate,” Tim said with a grin. “Raven has won the last three years in a row. Someone had to topple her crown.” The boy patted Raven’s shoulder, his smile widening.

Raven gave the back of his arm a hard pinch, making Tim yelp. “Tis hardly my fault that I’m not tall enough to reach the top of the tree.”

He rubbed his arm and turned to Brit. “To whom do I owe my debt of gratitude?”

Brit extended his hand. “Brit Griffin.”

“The new earl!” The boy declared with a comical expression. “Did you really grow up in the Amazon rainforest with the pygmies? I can’t quite imagine it, given your height.”

Laughter exploded from Brit’s chest. Unable to speak, he shook his head before he finally said, “No, but that might be the most imaginative theory I’ve heard.”

Tim finally shook Brit’s hand. “Tim Cratchit, the youngest and most likable.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Brit replied.

“I would protest,” Raven said as she ruffled the boy’s already disheveled hair. “But he’s quite right.”

Tim chuckled and then sprinted out of the room, calling, “Ma, Raven disqualified herself!”

Mrs. Cratchit appeared in the doorway. “Oh, hello there, Mr…er…my lord.” The woman dipped into a hurried curtsy.

“I prefer Brit if you please.” Brit took Mrs. Cratchit’s hand, pulling her up. “I haven’t quite adjusted to the title.”

“I can understand why.” She smiled warmly. “Since you are here, we could use your help. Normally the servants judge our contest, but they are hardly impartial.”

Brit glanced at Raven in question, and she gave an uncharacteristic shy nod of assent.

He could see that he’d unbalanced her with his appearance at such a familial occasion. Good. Perhaps the setting combined with his determination to be candid would give them the opportunity for a fresh start.

They entered a large morning room where a Christmas tree stood in a place of purpose, towering two stories high, covered in glittering beads and glass ornaments of gold and silver. Raven’s older sister Martha sat cross-legged by the murmuring fire, poking cloves into plump oranges wrapped in festive ribbon. While Peter and Matthew—the middle brother—strung fluffy, white popcorn and crimson berries into a garland. Brit had met Peter at the orphanage but barely recognized the stoic doctor as he laughingly threw cranberries at Matthew’s head. Tim channeled his exuberance into playing an up-tempo version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” on a stately baby grand piano.

The scene was altogether wholesome. Brit swallowed an inexplicable lump in his throat. What would it have been like to grow up in an environment of such love and acceptance? He glanced over at Raven, perhaps her family’s love fostered the confidence and sense of purpose that had birthed the extraordinary woman’s dream to become London’s first practicing female physician.

“Attention everyone!” Mrs. Cratchit clapped her hands, drawing the activity to a halt. “We have a guest judge for our spectacular this year. The Earl of Wexford, Brit Griffin.”

Brit smiled and twirled his hand as he bent in an exaggerated bow.

The Cratchits dropped their trimmings, including Bob Cratchit who appeared from behind the massive pine and stood before him. Martha curtsied low while the men bowed deep.

“There is no need to stand on such formalities, unless…” Brit quirked a brow. “You hope to win my favor.”

His joke hit the mark and the Cratchits relaxed.

Matthew, who appeared in his twenties, with light brown hair and an oddly familiar countenance, stepped forward and said with mock affront, “Tis hardly fair when Raven saved your life, is it?”

“No worries, old man.” Tim clapped his older brother on the shoulder. “She has right disqualified herself by accepting Lord Wexford’s help.”

“You don’t say.” Matthew’s eyes narrowed in calculation as the other Cratchits all spoke at once.

Peter cupped his jaw shrewdly. “Can I offer you a brandy or a cigar, my good man?”

Matthew moved in front of Peter. “You look like a discerning gentleman. How about a piece of Cook Fran’s famous mince pie?”

“You are all despicable!” Raven laughed and turned to Brit. “This man is above reproach. Now show him your trees and let’s be done with this.”

“The reigning champion is a sore loser, it would seem,” Martha muttered.

“You bet your gumdrop buttons, I am! I planned that theme for months.” Raven’s lips pursed in an adorable pout.

Raven’s tree had silk butterflies perched on nearly every branch, their wings lustrous shades of lavender, pink, and silver. The matching glass baubles caught the sunlight, while glittering, metallic ribbons flowed down the sides, curling up at the ends. It had been the most colorful, creative concoction Brit had ever seen.

Until he saw the other Cratchits’ trees.

Each family member had space in a different room to decorate their own tree, all of them glorious and unique. Mrs. Cratchit’s tree in the sewing room was sheathed inside a flowing, white gown with gold trim that she had stitched by hand. Wings with real feathers extended out on either side to give the illusion of an angel. Mr. Cratchit’s tree, in the front parlor, was festooned with different-sized green and silver drums, wooden music notes, and pieces of sheet music. Matthew’s had a train theme, and Martha’s held dozens of gingerbread houses and tiny people decorated with frosting and colorful candies.

Peter had forgone the pine altogether and stacked books in the shape of a tree that nearly hit the ceiling. The engineering of the near-perfect symmetry was impressive, if not entirely festive.

But it was Tim’s tree that had all of them grinning from ear to ear. Tiny legs covered in striped tights with pointed slippers protruded from the tree at random angles, as if elves dove inside the branches. Comical little faces peeked out among swirling peppermints and oversized candy canes. But perhaps the best part was that the tree was topped with an enormous, candy-striped stocking cap, and a pair of curl-toed shoes tipped with bells jutted out of the bottom; creating the illusion that a giant elf held the tree upright. Overall, the tree was a jumble of red, white, and green chaos that conveyed humor and joy, just like the boy himself.

Brit stroked his chin. This was the final tree, and the decision was upon him. Mrs. Cratchit pushed a golden ornament into his hands that read, Cratchit Christmas Champion 1864 .

“The winner’s name will be engraved upon the trophy, and it shall be hung upon our main family tree with the previous years’ winners,” she said.

“At least this year,” Matthew said with a wiggle of his brows. “It won’t be Raven’s name. Thanks to you, Lord Wexford.”

“Please call me Brit. After this, I feel like I’ve earned the familiarity.”

“Well then, Brit,” Mr. Cratchit boomed. “We await your decision!”

Brit’s gaze shifted to Raven who smiled wide as her eyes darted to Tim’s playful tree. He offered her a wink, then moved to face the family. “You all have created the most marvelous Christmas displays I’ve ever witnessed, even more creative than the grand trees at Harrods.”

There were smiles and nods all around.

“That’s because we honor the true meaning of Christmas in our hearts,” Martha said merrily.

“Well then, I must award the tree that brought me the most joy. Quite the most whimsical thing I’ve witnessed, perhaps ever.” Brit extended the trophy to the youngest Cratchit whose mouth dropped open as he accepted the large bauble. “Tim Cratchit, I declare you the winner of the Cratchit Christmas Spectacular!”

Tim let out a whoop as he jumped up, and punched the air, shouting, “God bless the new Lord Wexford!”

The Cratchits laughed even as the Mr. and Mrs. smiled at their youngest indulgently.

“Well done, old chap,” Peter said amiably.

“Tim, how did you do this?” his mother asked in wonder.

“Are you certain you didn’t have any help?” Matthew challenged.

“If by help you mean using you as a model, then yes,” Tim said and promptly ran from his brother’s lunge.

“Don’t you break that ornament!” Mrs. Cratchit shuffled after her two youngest as they raced out of the room.

The others followed, chattering about each other’s trees. Which left only Brit and Raven in the room.

“Well done, Brit,” she said, gazing up at him, her clear amethyst eyes twinkling.

They stared at one another a moment too long before Brit said in a rough whisper, “Thanks for allowing me to participate in your family tradition.”

“Oh, it isn’t over yet.” Raven smiled at him, the expression lighting her entire countenance as her gaze roamed over his face. “There’s so much more to come.”

For some unknown reason, Brit’s heart began to thump so loudly, he worried she might hear it. Yet, he could not look away. A connection snapped into place between them with such force that someone might be able to see the ties of their hearts binding together if they looked closely enough. The feeling was foreign; exciting and terrifying all at once, and Brit wondered if in his vulnerability he’d just given this woman the power to shatter him.

His goal to win Raven suddenly felt incredibly foolish. He leaned back and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, bricks of protection closing him off from his own emotions. “I should be going,” he said, regretting the words, yet unable to take them back.

“I thought you needed my help?” Raven asked with a challenging lift of her brow.

She was so beautiful in that moment that she stole his breath. He could no longer remember why he’d come or why he needed to leave. “I do?” his reply came out as a question.

Raven placed a delicate hand on his arm and Brit stared at it, every one of his senses narrowed down to the point of her touch.

“Yes, something about navigating the big, bad creatures lurking in the fathoms of society.” Her eyes sparked. She was teasing him.

His lips lifted, despite himself.

“I asked you what I got out of our bargain and I’m claiming my forfeit now,” she said.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

She looped her arm through his elbow and began to steer him out of the room. “Martha has won the cookie decorating contest the past five years. You’re going to help me steal the title since you so heartlessly snatched the tree championship from my hands.”

“Another contest!” Brit exclaimed. “I hardly think this is what’s meant by honoring the true meaning of Christmas.”

Raven was quiet for a moment as they walked toward the noise spilling out of the dining room. “Passively consuming the holiday is not our way. Keeping Christmas is a choice, an action. It is love and light, and the spirit in which we live year-round. What better way to stay joyful than to play games with those you love?”

“I can see that, but…” Brit trailed off as Christmastimes past flashed through his mind. All those years shivering as he watched through windows at other’s cheerful gatherings, alone and frozen to the bone. Then later, thieving for weeks to keep his gang warm and fed, and that year they’d nearly lost Chip because they could not afford medical treatment. He felt himself stiffen and Raven tugged him to a stop.

“What is it?”

“What about those without?” He swallowed the emotion building in his throat. “For them, this time of year isn’t a game.”

She searched his face and the merriment from the other room faded away.

Brit knew his comments were unfair. Raven and Peter donated their doctoring or took payment in trade for those who could not pay.

“You speak from experience,” she whispered gently.

He gave a single nod, not trusting his voice.

“If you have the time, I’ll show you that there is more to our games than amusement.”

This was his out. He could escape the feelings rising up to strangle him by walking out the door and not looking back. A small voice told him he stood at the crossroads of their relationship; the critical juncture of the path that once taken, he could not turn back from.

If he left, the remarkable woman who stood before him, fully unguarded and inviting, would close her heart to him forever.

Fear clawed at his throat like a living beast, urging him to run; to protect himself from the strong possibility that this could end in pain like he’d never felt. Cold logic told him the street rat would lose to the man who had been raised an earl—his brother and Raven’s betrothed.

What was he even thinking?

He took a step back from her, the excuse forming on his tongue.

Then, Raven grasped his hand and smiled so big and warm that his icy reason melted away.

Brit returned her smile with a broad one of his own.

What if like Christmas, love was a choice?

Brit gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Lead the way, Doc Cratchit.”