Once Upon A Christmas Past

15. Chapter 15

Chapter fifteen

A waking in the midst of a prodigiously cold night, the boy felt his stomach clench in hunger. If he did not eat, there would be little purpose in hiding in Scrooge’s cellar except to leave his rotting bones behind. With a bit of a tremble, he stood and made his way up the rickety stairs and into the pantry only to be assaulted by the flaring light of a candle and the shriek of the old servant woman who drove him out the side door with the stick of a broom in his back. The boy ran out through the gates, stumbling into a pile of icy slush and did not get up.

For as long as Brit could remember, he’d had to make hard decisions. Which boy would receive the new pair of boots he’d snatched? How much food should he eat to keep up his strength without depriving the rest of the gang? Fight or run when his back was to the wall.

Not kissing Raven Cratchit in the snow had been one of the hardest.

He’d chosen flight because it was what was best for her. In that moment when he could’ve taken what he wanted and kissed her on the street for all and sundry to see, he’d chosen her happiness over his own. Because ruining her reputation and breaking her engagement was not the way he wanted her in his life. True, it had been his plan to steal Raven from John and marry her himself.

Which he’d failed at miserably.

But declining to follow through on his plan was the least of it, he thought as he slammed his bedroom door at Wexford House. Worse, he had gone and fallen in love with his mark. And that love would not allow him to destroy her in order to save himself.

“You look like hell, mate.”

Brit spun around to find Archie lounging on his bed, arms behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles as if he belonged there.

“What are you doing here, Arch? Don’t you have some lady’s dressing rooms to haunt?”

Brit tossed his soggy hat onto the dresser and brushed the melting flakes out of his hair. He’d walked the twelve blocks in the snow in an attempt to cool his ardor.

“No,” Archie said without humor. “But I did just spend the night with Miss Cratchit, saving you from your adoring brother’s latest scheme.”

Confused, Brit spun toward his oldest friend. “Miss Cratchit?”

Archie sat up and rolled his eyes. “I’m speaking of Belinda, not Raven, you lovesick dolt.”

“Look who’s talking,” Brit retorted automatically. Then slumped into a chair by the fire to remove his boots. “What have my brothers done now?” He used that term in the loosest sense.

Archie stared at him for several seconds before saying, “Nothing you need to worry about because Miss Cratchit and I took care of it. It’s what she overheard this morning that concerns me.”

Brit arched a single brow in question.

“Bel…Miss Cratchit,” he corrected himself. Was Archie Fox blushing? Brit grinned despite himself. But Archie’s next words killed his humor. “She overheard John and George discuss their plans to contest the will. And if they don’t succeed, who knows what they’ll try next.”

Brit froze with one boot dangling in his hand.

“For toffs, they’re quite dastardly,” Archie continued. “Your arrest proves that. I’m here to persuade you to return to Hill House.”

“No.” Brit had already given up enough ground that day. If he turned tail and ran from his ancestral home, he would never forgive himself.

“No?” Archie moved off the bed in a half jump, half float.

“I plan to go speak to the MacCarrons about another matter this evening, but I will not run from this Arch. I can’t.”

Archie stood, arms crossed, feet spread wide, assessing. Eventually, he said, “Fine. But we need a plan.”

“We?” Brit’s brows lifted in surprise.

“Of course, we .” Archie looked affronted. “Who’s going to watch that freakishly large back of yours, eh?”

Since Archie’s death, he had seemed unable to stray from Hill House for long. When Brit had asked him about it, he’d said his soul was tied to what he’d cared about most in life. “Can you do that? I thought you were attached to the orphanage?”

“No.” Archie shook his head. “I’ve been here every night already.”

Brit blinked in confusion. “Why? I don’t even want to sleep in this monstrosity of a house most of the time.”

Archie’s smile was slow and bittersweet. “Because I’m anchored to you, mate.”

The next morning Raven arrived at the soup kitchen early. With a shiver, she wiped snow from her boots and removed her cloak, hanging it behind the door. The surly cook, Johnson, greeted her with a nod, then turned back to peeling a mountain of potatoes. The comforting scents of strong coffee, wood smoke, and bread fresh out of the oven welcomed her as Johnson pointed to a pile of freshly washed carrots and a chopping board. Raven tied an apron over her serviceable gray gown and set to work chopping.

The Cratchits were regular volunteers at St. Saviour's who cared for the indigent, but the entire family turned out for the Christmas feast that the church sponsored with the help of donations from several congregations in the area. Her family would arrive later in the morning, all smiles and good cheer. Raven needed an escape, which the quiet kitchen and mindless work of preparing food provided.

In two short days it would be Christmas Eve and the annual Fezziwig Ball. The event did not spark the usual excitement in her chest. Perhaps because on the night of the ball, her family would announce the date of her wedding in three months’ time. Her gut churned and she peeled with more vigor.

She’d awoken that morning with a melancholy she couldn’t shake and done something she wasn’t proud of. As she’d sat up in bed, Belinda appeared, practically glowing with excitement. Before her sister could speak, Raven had dismissed her—ordered her from her presence. It was something she’d never done since Bel had passed and was shocked to watch her sister’s eyes widen as she had disappeared in a blink.

Immediately regretful, Raven had called her back over and over. To no avail.

It did not help her mood that the day before seemed to have burned so indelibly into her brain that she could not stop replaying it. Nor could she stop questioning her every word and action. And Brit’s.

Brit.

His name felt like a prayer, a wish, a hope. An impossible dream.

Her mother was right, of course. She’d committed herself to John. But how could she live without the man who shared her ideals, sparked vibrance in her blood, and mirrored her strength of will? When Brit had held her, it felt as if two pieces of the same puzzle had been united at last. Did he feel it too?

And how cruel was it that he’d come into her life too late?

Raven slammed the cleaver down on a row of carrots, the nubs skittering across the counter and onto the floor.

“What did those vegetables ever do to you?” Matthew asked as he and Tim filed through the backdoor and brushed the snow off their coats.

Raven realized that tears welled in her eyes, and she turned away, bending to pick up the errant carrot slices.

Tim stooped beside her to help. “What is it, sister?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, Tim. Besides, you wouldn’t understand,” she sighed.

“I see more than people give me credit for.” He insisted as they both straightened, and he began to wash the carrots in the sink. “For instance, I observed that the new Lord Wexford sees you as more than a friendly acquaintance.”

Unable to help herself, Raven whirled toward her brother. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s always watching you,” Tim said with a sideways smirk. “He watches your reactions, your movements, and yesterday, followed you around like a puppy with his tongue lolling out of his head.”

Raven crossed her arms. “I would not compare Brit Griffin to a puppy.”

Tim’s soulful brown eyes met hers, this boy who had endured more hardship and pain in his short life than most adults she knew, and she was forced to admit that despite his exuberance, Tim was mature beyond his years. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Rave, he looks at you as if you’re a miracle.”

With that, Tim rushed off to chop celery.

Raven stood very still. Brit had feelings for her too. Euphoria sparkled inside her chest, and she held it close for several glorious seconds before the weight of reality snuffed her joy like a candle flame. John Griffin was her future. She had made the commitment, and she could not change her mind like some flighty socialite. Her family would pay the price.

What she felt for Brit didn’t matter.

It couldn’t matter.

The feast was in full swing, men, women, and children seated along bench seats and eating by candlelight when John appeared with a sack bursting with toys slung over one shoulder. He perched upon a small stage and began to distribute presents like an aristocratic version of Saint Nicholas, all smiles and cheer. He was a good man, Raven reminded herself. He may not light her blood on fire or look at her like she was a blasted miracle—Tim had to be exaggerating—but she could do far worse for a husband.

Raven handed a full plate to a homeless gentleman who accepted the food with trembling arms and tears in his eyes. “A blessed Christmas to ye, Miss.”

“And you as well.” She smiled, even as her heart broke. It was not enough. Cookies, a free meal here or there. Their efforts only scratched the surface of the homeless epidemic. Her gaze darted back to John, and she wondered if he’d brought the toys to placate her or if he truly cared.

Raven served another plate and another, smiling all the while. Soon, the food began to run low, and the difficult decision was made to turn away the dozens of people waiting outside. Matthew had moved to lock the doors when a broad figure ducked inside and swept off his hat, waves of midnight hair tumbling over his brow.

Brit.

Raven’s heart sped as blood surged to her cheeks. What was he doing there?

Then she spotted the small person at his side—the boy, Joey, from the workhouse, but his hair was combed, skin scrubbed clean, and he wore a new set of clothes. Raven grinned, whirled around, and taking off her apron, directed Tim to take over her station.

Brit’s gaze met hers across the room and locked upon her. Pulse racing, Raven made her way through the crowd. Of course, Brit had followed through with his promise to the child.

A scream cut through the air. “Help! She ain’t breathin’!”

Raven stopped and searched the room, and spotting a woman on the floor, picked up her skirts to run. She pushed through the crowd that stood in a circle. “Back up if you please, I’m a doctor.” She dropped down beside the gray-haired woman and began to search for a pulse. It was there but thready. The lady was unconscious and nonresponsive. Raven bent and placed her ear near the woman’s mouth but could feel no exhalations. She opened the woman’s coat and rose up on her knees, placing her hands over the woman’s heart.

“Whot do ye think you’re doin’ woman?” a gruff voice demanded.

Without looking up from her patient, Raven answered. “I am about to start chest compressions because she is not breathing. I’m a physician.” Peter had left for a shift at St. Bart’s or she would have called for him to take over. When it came to a patient’s well-being, she had no pride.

“You ain’t no doctor. Stop this instant before ye kill her!” The man tugged Raven back by the shoulders.

Raven fell on her bottom. “Sir, I must insist. She needs to be revived.”

“I ain’t lettin’ no witch touch me wife!” the man said, looming over her.

“Move away, sir.” Brit appeared and held the irate man back with one large hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let Doc Cratchit do her work.”

“There’s no such thing as a woman doctor,” a younger man stepped forward to challenge Brit. “Ain’t natural.”

“A lady doctor is downright blasphemous, that is!” a woman squawked.

“Let go o’ me this instant!” The patient’s husband fought against Brit now.

Ignoring them all, Raven crawled over to the unconscious woman and began chest compressions. When that did not revive her, Raven held the unconscious woman’s nose closed and blew air into her lungs.

“She’s killin’ ‘er!”

Raven kept going, restarting her chest compressions. There was no response. She said a prayer and blew into the woman’s mouth again, and again.

Finally, the patient gasped for air and began to cough.

“You’re all right, ma’am,” Raven assured as the woman’s panicked gaze met hers. “You’ve had a heart incident, but—”

“Ahh!” The scream cut her off and a hard kick landed against Raven’s side, sending her sprawling.

“That’s enough!” Brit growled as he picked the man up and carried him bodily toward the door, ordering over his shoulder, “Martha, your sister needs help.”

“I’m fine,” Raven reassured, dusting off her skirt as she stood, ignoring the pain in her ribs. “We need a cab to take this woman to hospital.”

Her eyes met John’s over the crowd. He watched her with an unfathomable expression.

“A cab, John, if you please,” Raven said stiffly.

John gave a single nod, before heading out the door.

Once the woman and her irate husband had been sent on their way with a wad of bills from Mr. Cratchit to cover her medical expenses, Raven sat in the kitchen while Martha wrapped ice in a cloth and handed it to her.

Raven took it and gingerly pressed the cold pack against her side as Martha looked on with wide eyes. “It is just a bruise, Martha. Please help Mother and the others finish the dinner.”

“Are you sure this is worth it?” Martha asked with a shake of her head.

“I must ask the same question,” John said, entering the kitchen. “Honestly, Raven, it really will be for the best that you put all this behind you once we are wed.”

Raven’s brow crinkled. “What do you mean?”

John leaned a hip against the countertop and crossed his arms, a grimace of disgust on his face. “It’s not only unsafe, as you have proven today, but terribly unfeminine to touch others in such an intimate manner. You put your mouth on that old beggar’s chapped and blistered lips. She could have infected you with God knows what! How can I allow that?”

Raven rose slowly, the pain in her ribs forgotten. “Allow?”

“Once we have a family of our own, there will be no need for you to pour all your time and energy into others,” John said with a tight smile. “You will have plenty to do at home.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Brit strode in, trailed by Joey who had to take three running steps to match one of Brit’s. “She’s off to St. Bart’s,” Brit announced.

“That was amazing!” Little Joey exclaimed as he ran to Raven and stared up at her with wide, unblinking eyes. “That woman wasn’t alive, then she was! How’d you do that?”

Raven smiled at Joey and ruffled his hair. “With lots of practice.” She looked up and met John’s gaze. “And years of training.”

“I want that training!” Joey shouted. “Mr. Brit, can you teach me to be a doctor too?”

“Well, that might be a challenge since I am not a doctor myself.” Brit grinned down at Joey. “But once you learn to read and write, and complete your schooling at the orphanage, I’m sure any medical academy would be happy to have you.”

Mr. Cratchit entered the kitchen and set an empty bowl in the sink. “Raven, Gus is bringing the carriage around to take you home. We can finish here.”

“But Father, I’m fine.”

“I will escort her home,” John said. “My carriage is parked right out front.”

Raven shot a glare at her fiancé. “That won’t be necessary.”

Tension filled the room for several long seconds.

Finally, Brit said, “I must return Joey to Hill Orphanage. John, why don’t you come with us in our carriage.”

Brit’s words did not sound like a request.

“A solid plan,” Mr. Cratchit said. “I assume we will see you at the Fezziwig Ball night after next, Brit?”

“Brit?” John lifted a brow at the informal address.

Brit smiled wide. “Yes, we go way back, don’t we Mr. Cratchit.”

“That we do, young man!”

Raven walked over to John. “We will finish our discussion later.”

“I believe it is quite settled,” John said before pivoting on his heel and stalking out of the kitchen.

Brit took a step closer to her. “Are you all right?” He raised his hand toward her and then seemed to think better of it and dropped his arm at his side.

She searched his warm, dark eyes full of concern, and perhaps a touch of the hero-worship she’d witnessed from Joey. “I…” She swallowed as emotion flooded her throat. This man would never demand she give up her doctoring career. Because he valued humans from all walks of life—rich or poor, common or genteel. And he valued her, and her wishes. Realizing they were gazing into each other’s eyes, Raven swallowed and took a step back. “I am fine. Thank you, m’lord.”

Strong, white teeth bit into his bottom lip as hurt played across Brit’s handsome features. They had moved far past her using his title, but it was the one thing she could do to put distance between them. He gave a short bow and then called for Joey who had been eating the crumbs out of an empty pie tin, and they walked out together.

Raven slumped down on the stool, her shoulders heavy.

“What is it, darling,” her father asked softly.

She shook her head and then looked up, tears shining in her eyes. “What do you do when you know you’ve made a terrible mistake, but to reverse it would hurt everyone you love most in the world?”

Mr. Cratchit gave her a melancholy smile. “Raven, my dear, only you can answer that question.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But if you are talking about what I think you’re talking about, we Cratchits have overcome much worse.”

Raven searched her beloved father’s face and then threw herself into his arms. “I love you, Papa.”

“And I love you, my brilliant girl.” He kissed her hair and then stepped back. “I like Brit very much. We all do.”

She smiled shyly. “I don’t even know if he returns my feelings.”

Mr. Cratchit gave a hearty laugh. “Oh, he does. Believe me, he does!”