by L G Rollins
Contents
Note from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Afterword
Discussion Questions
Your Free Story
Also by L. G. Rollins
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by L. G. Rollins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Note from the Author
Some time ago, the thought came to me to create a trilogy based on Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. However, in making one book become three stories, a single fact became immediately clear. This would not be a retelling in the truest sense of the word.
This is not a book about a grumpy old man who is visited by spirits in the middle of the night and awakes the next day a better individual.
Instead, I decided to take the essence of the three spirits and write one story around each of them. I wanted to take the messages told by the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and explore the lessons and ideas they present.
That being said, many of the characters first imagined by Charles Dickens make cameo appearances here and there, though I have taken some liberties to aid in telling these stories.
I believe it is worth mentioning that some of the holiday terms we now use to reference the Christmas season were either not used in Regency times, used in slightly different ways, or used to mean slightly different things. Unfortunately, many resources were contradictory on this point—in those cases, I deferred to Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and the complete works of Jane Austen.
After much research, here is a list of terms and how they are used in this series:
“Christmas”—refers to the entire season, not simply one day.
“Christmas time”—Dickens uses this term, but always as two words (not the “Christmastime” we are used to seeing).
“Holyday”—a formal term used to reference specific religious days, including, but not limited to Epiphany, Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, Easter, Whitsunday, and Christmas Day.
“Merry Christmas”—used by Dickens. The term “Happy Christmas” only became popular later.
“Christmas holidays,” and “jolly holidays”—though often in England the term “holiday” refers to a break from school and work during the summer, both Dickens and Austen use the term “Christmas holidays” and Dickens even once says “jolly holidays,” so I chose to include both terms in this story as well.
“Greetings of the season,” “festive season,” “the season,” and “winter season”—all also show up in Dickens’s and Austen’s stories.
I hope you find this story memorable and that it brings a bit more light to your jolly holidays!
Merry Christmas and God bless us every one.
To Del,
One of the true peacemakers in our world
The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.
…
“Ghost of the Future!” he exclaimed, “I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?”
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.
“Lead on!” said Scrooge. “Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!”
A Christmas Carol
by Charles Dickens
Chapter One
Miss Martha Cratchit slowed her step as she entered the cemetery. The headstones protruded from the ground in even rows, each covered in several inches of snow. It always felt cold here; at least to her, it did. But never more so than on a winter morning. Martha pulled her worn pelisse tighter around her shoulders.
The stitching along the sleeves was all but gone, and bits of frost and wind slipped in near her shoulder, pressing through her long-sleeved dress to her skin beneath.
She stopped before a horribly familiar grave.
Mr. and Mrs. Peter Cratchit
They hadn’t even been able to afford two separate headstones when her parents had passed. Her father had been the grandson of a Viscount, her mother the daughter of a Baronet. Yet they’d sunk so far as to be huddled together in death, in a single grave, only one name between them.
Martha shut her eyes to the sight, her cheeks stinging in the cold even as her face crumbled. She, her brothers, and her grandfather had fallen yet further since their death. Debts were mounting, and the small rooms they rented were forever cold.
What were they to do?
Grandfather’s employer had, yet again, refused to increase his wages. Martha opened her eyes; cold, lifeless granite met her gaze. Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder what the point was of even trying. Everyone died eventually. This modest cemetery was what awaited them all. No matter how hard Martha worked, no matter how good she tried to be, no matter how desperately she loved her brothers and Grandfather, in the end, she would be nothing more than a coffin below a mound of dirt.
The cries of her brothers came from the road behind her. They were laughing; over what, she hadn’t heard.
Martha shook her head. She needed to push aside such morbid thoughts. Imagine what Peter Jr. and Tim would think if they knew of what she’d been thinking. Martha pulled herself up straighter. That would certainly never do.
“Come on,” Tim called to her. “You’re making us late for services.”
Martha turned and strode toward the two; Grandfather had awoken with a headache and needed rest, so it would only be the three of them today.
“Why’d you rush us all morning if you only planned to make us late at the last minute?” Peter grumbled.
Martha pasted on a smile, but she couldn’t quite shake the despair inside her chest. “You are right, Master Peter, we had better hurry. Suppose someone chooses to sit on our family pew, and we are not there to defend it?”
Both boys laughed. Peter drew an imaginary sword at the idea of ‘defending’ the pew and promptly began skipping about the snow-speckled road. At thirteen, he was quickly outgrowing the clothes Martha had altered for him that spring. But there simply wasn’t money to buy more; what would she do when not only his ankles but half his calf was showing?
Tim took hold of her hand, even as he continued to laugh and shake his head as though Martha’s prediction was far too childish for him. He was, after all, quite mature at se
ven. “No one cares to sit on our pew. Not since I’ve sat there.” He said the last while pointing to his own crippled leg.
“Whatever makes you think so?” Martha said, falling into step with her brother, even while Peter continued to fend off pretend villains bent on thieving the Cratchit family pew.
“Lady Kenitry said so.” He spoke in complete seriousness without a hint of shame. “She said, ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead touching anything that little runt has brushed up against. Suppose what he has is catching?’”
Martha’s heart sped up, heating her face and causing her jaw to tighten. How cruel did a woman have to be to utter such vitriol? “She is a lonely old woman without any imagination, as you have, to keep her company. You don’t need to pay her the least bit of mind.”
“Lady Wilmington agreed with her.”
Of course she had. Lady Wilmington was as bitter as last year’s Christmas oranges. Still, Martha tried to keep her expression calm. That Tim never took it to heart when others excluded him or spoke ill of him was a credit to his character. Moreover, he’d had nearly all his worldly possessions taken away over the past several years; Martha was determined his nobler attributes not be taken away as well.
“Don’t worry, Martha,” Tim said, his walking stick, with their footsteps, crunching a syncopated rhythm in the snow. “I don’t mind. It’s like you said, they’re just old and lonely, is all.”
Even old and lonely women did not have the right to speak of her brother so. A forgotten burial spot may be all that awaited her in the future, but if things did not change, when that moment arrived, she’d haunt those two old biddies and their children and their children’s children until the great archangel Michael stepped in to stop her himself.
Martha’s lips twitched at the thought of floating through the two ladies’ different manors. When one was a ghost, it really didn’t matter what title a lady held. Marchioness, countess, viscountess—they scared just the same.
They reached the long, narrow steps that led up to the church door. Tim’s constant smile wavered. Stairs were particularly difficult for him. When the need to sell their family home had become undeniable, it had taken Martha months to find some rooms for rent which didn’t require he go up and down several flights a day. The rooms they occupied now were behind a stable and forever stank of horse, particularly during the summer, but at least they were ground level.
Martha slowed to a crawl, choosing to stay shoulder to shoulder with Tim. Her hands ached to reach out and take him around his waist or by the arm to assist him. Only a few months ago, he would have let her, too. But he was a growing boy, and ever since autumn, he’d refused her help more than once. Now, she no longer offered, and he seemed to appreciate that.
Peter, however, stood at the top of the stairs near the door, his foot tapping impatiently. “Come on. Mr. Jakob’s bound to start his blathering any minute now.”
“Peter!” Martha’s head snapped up. She knew full well that he’d been raised to show more respect than that and opened her mouth to tell him so.
Before she could, a man walked up behind her brother—one with a head of white hair and dressed in vicar robes.
Martha cringed inwardly. Why did Peter—generally a very polite boy—have to choose now to speak his mind?
Mr. Jakob only smiled. “Don’t you worry, young Master Peter, I hadn’t planned on starting any blathering until you, your brother, and your sister were comfortably sitting.”
Tim seemed to hurry up the stairs a bit faster at hearing the vicar’s voice. Despite his best efforts, they were still barely halfway to the door.
“Is your grandfather joining us today?” Mr. Jakob continued to speak with Peter.
“No sir,” Peter responded meekly, “on account of a bad headache.”
“That is most unfortunate. I will pray for him, and you ought to pray for him as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
At least Peter was speaking respectfully now. Martha would hate for their kind, considerate vicar to think she wasn’t raising her brothers to be honorable men.
“Good for you. Now, you and your brother ought to go inside and get seated. I need to speak with your sister before the sermon.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter replied again.
Mr. Jakob turned toward Martha expectantly. She nearly hurried forward; after all, she hated the thought of being the reason he began services late. Nonetheless, she couldn’t bring herself to leave Tim’s side. If she skipped ahead, it would only showcase how slow he took stairs. He would feel it, too. The difference between his gait and other boys his own age. How weak his left leg was compared to his right, how malformed. She couldn’t do that to him.
Mr. Jakob watched on; she could feel his gaze on her. Martha glanced up at the tall vicar, hoping he could recognize her dilemma and not misinterpret her slow step.
Mr. Jakob held up a hand and smiled, clearly indicating there was no need to rush.
Bless him. The Cratchit family had suffered much, especially in the past few years since Martha’s parents had died. But one way in which they had been undeniably blessed was in their gentle-hearted vicar.
Finally, Martha and Tim reached the top stair. Tim seemed a bit winded from rushing himself up, but he hadn’t tripped or even wobbled. Though he would never be like other children, he was still stronger now than he had been a few years ago.
“Hurry in.” Martha urged both brothers forward. “I’ll be there shortly.”
The boys nodded and gave Mr. Jakob polite farewells and, in Peter’s case, a rather flamboyant best-wishes for a soul-stirring sermon—he seemed to be trying to make up for his ‘blathering’ misstep earlier—and then disappeared inside.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” Mr. Jakob began, his words a bit more rushed than usual. Though he had waited patiently, he probably did need to get inside and start services directly.
“Thank you for waiting.”
“I will get straight to the point. I understand your Grandfather’s employer has refused to up his wages.”
“Yes.” The memory of Grandfather coming home, dejected, with shoulder’s stooped, caused Martha’s jaw to tighten once more. “That is true.”
“I am sorry to hear it. I know what kind of a man Mr. Scrooge can be, so I cannot say I’m surprised. However, if I’m being frank, I had rather hoped your Grandfather’s cheerful nature would prove as much a boon to him as the income would to your family.”
In that case, it seemed neither of Mr. Jakob’s objectives had proven as beneficial as he’d hoped. “I am afraid we still are as we were.”
“I worried that might be true and with winter barreling down on us, too.”
Martha hated to think what type of situation they would all be in come January if they couldn’t somehow find a bit more coin to spend on warming their small rooms or providing meat for their stomachs. It didn’t seem to matter how often Martha looked over the books or skipped dinner herself; any time she looked forward to what might be coming their way, all she could see was insurmountable darkness. One that looked and felt remarkably like a cemetery.
“Miss Cratchit,” the vicar said, breaking into her thoughts. “I wish to say something, but I do not want to offend.”
Well, that sounded interesting. The only ones Martha believed Mr. Jakob had ever offended were little boys who desperately wished to run outside and play and then heard the vicar declare that he had a few words yet to say.
He seemed to be waiting for her.
Martha drew herself up—she really ought to not woolgather so when speaking to a man of God. “Please continue.”
“Thank you. I hope you understand that I only mean to help and am in no way ignorant of the titles held by your paternal great-grandfather, or your maternal grandfather.”
“Thank you,” she said. Though what she was thanking him for, she couldn’t rightly say.
“Well, my proposition is this.” He folded his hands together in front of him. “My housekeepe
r had a rather bad tumble earlier this week.”
“Oh, dear. Is she all right?” Martha knew Mr. Jakob’s housekeeper by sight only, as they’d crossed paths any number of times in Dunwell but had never spoken. All Martha knew was that the woman was elderly and never smiled.
“Yes, quite so. But she is not able to get around as easily as she once did. The doctor says it will be quite some time before she is able to undertake as many tasks as she is used to. I do not wish to replace her, yet I cannot deny that there are chores that need seeing to. I wondered if we might not be able to help one another out.”
“I don’t quite see how.”
“I’m offering you a position, Miss Cratchit. Now, before you balk, let me explain. You would be working under Mrs. Gale, helping to keep the church house clean and the vicarage running.”
A job. Another source of income. It seemed both too good to be true, and also very dangerous.
“Thank you, sir. I am fully aware of the honor of being given such an opportunity. However,” she dropped her voice, “if word ever got out that I’d turned to being a maid . . .” Any chances she had of making a match would end before the day was through.
“Never you fear. Neither Mrs. Gale nor myself will breathe a word of this to anyone. It would be our secret.”
That would solve a lot of problems. But would it work? Could she truly go to and from the church so often and not raise suspicions?
“Then again,” Mr. Jakob said, drawing his words out, “you could always start accepting a bit more charity.”