by L G Rollins
A knock came from the front door. Martha glanced over at Grandfather; who would be up this time of night? Grandfather didn’t seem to know the answer either, as he only held her gaze and shook his head.
“Hello?” a call came from just outside.
Her stomach flipped painfully. She’d know that deep voice anywhere. Martha stood and hurried over to Grandfather. “It’s Hugh—I mean, His Grace. Please, Grandfather, I can’t speak with him. Not tonight.”
“But, my dear,” Grandfather said, “speaking of our problems usually leads to the best solutions.”
Perhaps they did. But not when one was exhausted and bordering on the brink of tears. Martha shook her head. “Please, just ask him to leave. For me?”
Another knock sounded. “Mr. Cratchit?”
Grandfather glanced at the front door and then back to her. “Very well. You can slip up to Mr. Scrooge’s bedchamber and see if there isn’t something else up there that might make him more comfortable.”
“Thank you.” She placed a quick kiss on his cheek and hurried upstairs.
Hugh could have sworn he’d heard voices inside, and there was clearly a well-lit fire in the hearth; he could see the light coming through the many cracks in the door.
He lifted his hand, ready to knock a third time. The door opened, and Mr. Cratchit stared back at him.
Hugh had always rather liked Martha’s grandfather. He was optimistic and cheerful, even when life gave him no reason to be. Nonetheless, looking back at the old man now, Hugh could see displeasure in his eyes. He probably wouldn’t lash out at him as Peter had done a week ago, and he didn’t appear to be refusing to see him, as Martha had ever since. But Mr. Cratchit didn’t show any signs of being pleased to see him either.
“I was hoping to speak to you about Martha,” Hugh said.
“Rather late for a visit.”
Hugh nodded; it was nearly three in the morning. Late for a visit indeed. “Please. I only ask a moment of your time.”
Mr. Cratchit stepped back, swinging the door open further and allowing Hugh to enter. At least the space wasn’t freezing as it had been outside thanks to the calming fire in the hearth. An elderly man sat in a chair beside the flames. His head was bent low, and he seemed to be muttering to himself.
“Mr. Scrooge,” Mr. Cratchit said, nodding toward the man. “My employer. As you can see, he is unwell, which is why my granddaughter and I are here.”
So Martha was there. He sent a silent thank-you toward the heavens.
“May I speak with Martha?” he asked. If only he could see her instead of speaking to her through a wooden door, hopefully she would sense how sincere his apology was.
Mr. Cratchit kept his eyes on Mr. Scrooge even as he responded to Hugh. “I think not.”
All his relief from moments ago crumbled to the floor about his boots.
“Please, sir,” he tried.
“I think what she needs most is some time to herself.”
Hugh opened his mouth to protest—he’d given her plenty of that already, had he not?
However, Mr. Cratchit turned away. “If you will excuse me, I have some things to see to. I trust you can show yourself out.”
Apparently, the elderly man felt as Peter and Martha did; he only showed it in his own calm way. Hugh watched as Mr. Cratchit disappeared down the hallway, leaving him alone once more.
Alone—as he’d always been. Blast it, but he didn’t want to be alone anymore. He wanted to have people, family, about him. He wanted to spend his days in conversation with those he cared about. He wanted all the things he’d always shunned and purposely avoided.
Mr. Scrooge’s head rolled from one side to the other. “I have been reminded of my past. Seen the joy I currently shun.” He opened one eye and his gaze fell on Hugh. “Does that make you the dark spectre come to foretell my future?”
Hugh moved over to his side. So this was the man who’d pushed Martha to the point of working as a maid? This was the man who worked Mr. Cratchit for next to nothing? Though his fever was making Mr. Scrooge delirious, Hugh felt a familiar anger bubble inside him.
“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. But, dark spectre, I fear you most of all.”
He closed his eyes again and seemed to slip into a restless sleep.
Hugh, too upset to speak, simply stood by Mr. Scrooge’s chair. The ailing man’s words echoed about his ears, bringing to mind Martha’s words of several weeks ago. Had she not said that she was troubled for the future? That of all her problems and worries, nothing weighed her down more than not knowing what would be, for herself, but especially for her brothers and grandfather.
The future was rather like a dark spectre. Empty and void without a single thing to illuminate it. Was it any wonder that Martha, and even Mr. Scrooge, struggled to find peace when faced with such uncertainty?
“Look there,” Mr. Scrooge said, his head slumped heavily to the side, his eyes glazed over.
Hugh pointed toward the corner of the hearth, silently asking if that’s what the man meant. It certainly looked like the direction to which he was referring.
“A worthy place,” Mr. Scrooge continued. “See the dead vegetation overgrowing the stones? A worthy place for a grave indeed.”
Hugh’s arm dropped. The man sounded like a raving lunatic. Surely it was only brought on by the fever—or was he nearer his end than Hugh had originally realized?
Mr. Scrooge let out a small shudder, then, most surprisingly, he began to cry. “Have pity,” he said as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Assure me that I yet may change these shadows by an altered life.”
Though Hugh suspected the man had already made his way to Bedlam, his own anger eased, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. Had he not cried nearly those same words only moments ago? He, too, wished he could alter the path his life was on. He, too, wished to be a better man.
“Hugh.”
He turned at the sound of Martha’s soft voice.
She dropped her gaze the moment his met hers. “I thought you’d left.” She hurried past him, walking up to Mr. Scrooge and placing a hand against his forehead.
He needed to speak, to say something. Only, what that something should be, he couldn’t seem to figure out.
“I’m sorry,” he said at length.
She didn’t face him, didn’t so much as glance over her shoulder. Instead, she continued to fuss about Mr. Scrooge. Hugh suspected she was only looking for an excuse to keep her back to him.
Well, if this was all he got, he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at the opportunity. Mr. Scrooge seemed to be sleeping deeply now, so he didn’t have to worry about interruptions from that corner.
“I n-n-never meant to hurt Tim. Or you.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I—have only myself to blame, I know that. But, you need to know that I am changed. At least, I am changing. I hope to be a better man.”
Her hands stilled, but she did not turn around. At least she was listening.
“You were right. I have shut myself off from life. Now I see how wrong that was of me.”
He paused. Wouldn’t she speak to him at all? Agitation boiled up inside him.
“Please,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “Tell me how I might show you I don’t want to be the man I was.”
Silence again.
Perhaps she wouldn’t speak to him tonight. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Hugh’s shoulders slumped.
“If you would like to help,” Martha said, “Grandfather could use some assistance getting Mr. Scrooge up to his bed.”
Hugh’s heart leapt. It wasn’t the hurt-mending, everything-will-be-well statement he’d hoped for when he had first set out to come here. But it was something. It was progress.
“Of course,” he said.
Martha moved out of the room, returning a moment later with her grandfather. She still woul
dn’t look at him, but at least she’d listened and then responded. If only he could help her see it was worth it to keep listening and keep responding, they just might make it through this.
The fire in Mr. Scrooge’s room had been lit and well-built, same as the one below. The bed itself was in horrid shape, but at least the man would be able to lay down. With only a word or two between them, Hugh and Mr. Cratchit left Mr. Scrooge to rest in peace.
Hugh hurried down, eager to see if he couldn’t get a bit more conversation out of Martha before departing. However, when he reached the main office, she was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Christmas morning dawned, and Hugh hurried out of bed and rang for his valet. When Martha had slipped away last night, he’d begrudgingly agreed with Mr. Cratchit. Words alone would never be enough.
Upon arriving home, new thoughts began swirling about his mind. Now that the sun was shining, he found he couldn’t wait. Even if she turned him away again, he needed to let her know that he was determined to be the man she’d seen inside him. The man he hadn’t known he could be before he met her.
After dressing and eating a quick breakfast, he had a carriage brought around. As he was stepping outside, his housekeeper hurried over to him.
“Here are the sweet rolls you requested,” she said, holding out a small package.
“Thank you,” Hugh said, taking it. Even with his thick gloves on, he could feel the warmth. Oh, and smell the cinnamon, too.
The housekeeper gave a short nod of her head, then moved away. She paused, however, just inside the doorway and turned back.
“Pardon me, Your Grace, but are you going to see Miss Cratchit this morning?”
He nodded.
She smiled softly. “I’m pleased to hear it. Don’t give up on her; she’ll come around.”
“I hope—you’re right.”
The housekeeper gave him a bit of a curtsy and stepped away from the wheels. With a quick rap, Hugh signaled the driver to be on their way. As they rolled forward, Hugh’s gaze repeatedly returned to the package in his hand. It seemed he wasn’t the only one at Stonewell Castle who believed it had been a better place when the Cratchits were residing there.
They reached the Cratchit home quickly. Hugh didn’t bother waiting for the steps to be lowered for him. Instead, he flung open the door and hopped out. In two strides, he was at the door and knocking. Had Mr. Cratchit ever made it home last night? Or was he still at Mr. Scrooge’s side? Though the old employer was crotchety and mean, Hugh could not deny the bit of empathy he felt for the man. He hoped he had pulled through all right.
The door opened, but only a sliver.
“Martha’s not here.” Peter, it seemed, was still quite upset.
Had she returned to sit with Mr. Scrooge last night after Hugh had left?
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
He didn’t answer for a bit, then finally said, “What do you want?”
“I’ve come to ap-p-pologize.” Again.
Peter’s forehead wrinkled into a deep scowl. “How do I know you mean it?”
Before now, Hugh had never realized how hard it was to win back trust once one had violated it. Time alone seemed not enough. Words alone weren’t either. He could only hope when those both combined with patient action he might finally prove himself.
Hugh dropped to one knee and held out the bundle. If ever he needed a little boy softening at the promise of food, it was now.
Peter eyed first him and then the bundle skeptically.
“I do mean it, Peter,” Hugh said. “I was wrong to yell at your—brother. I am so very sorry I did.”
Peter’s hands twitched; he seemed eager to take the bundle of food but not yet willing to trust Hugh enough to do so.
“You hurt Martha, too, didn’t you?” he said. “She’s awful mad, so you must have done something.” Clearly, Peter didn’t need to know exactly why Martha was upset at him; he was ready to side with his sister no matter the cause.
Hugh held the bundle of food out closer to Peter. “I didn’t hurt her so much as I disappointed her, I think.”
A bit of understanding dawned in Peter’s eyes. He took the bundle and pulled the fabric back. Several cross buns rested inside, steam still wafting off them.
“You best t-t-take those inside and eat them before they get cold.”
Peter nodded and disappeared inside once more, the door shutting behind him.
Hugh stared for a moment at the wood. Getting back in the Cratchit’s good graces was not going to be easy. But never had he resolved to do something more worthwhile. Perhaps if he visited later that day Martha would be back.
He stood and turned.
Martha was right there, standing only a few paces away. She watched him, warily, as Peter had.
“Good morning.”
“And to you.” She kept her chin up as she walked past him toward her front door.
“Martha, wait.”
She stopped, hand lifted toward the handle.
Hugh placed a hand on her shoulder and slowly turned her toward him. She looked exhausted. She also looked uneasy. His hand slipped down her arm until he held hers in his own.
“I am—sorry.”
She blinked several times. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
After all the years he’d spent not talking, he couldn’t, in good conscience, force her to speak now. Still, he didn’t want to leave her.
“Have you been up long?” he asked, not letting go of her hand. At least she didn’t pull it away. Surely that was a good sign.
“I have to be at the church house before sunrise. You know that.”
“Are you still doing that?” Even after a very late night seeing to Mr. Scrooge?
Her chin came up sharply. “Yes, I am. So you see, there is no need for your pity or charity here. We are getting along quite fine on our own.” She swung open the door.
Hugh stopped her with a gentle hand around her waist. “You know it wasn’t out of pity or charity that I brought you to Stonewell Castle.”
“Do I?” Her voice dropped low. “Do I even know you at all?”
How could she think such a thing? Hugh gathered her in his arms. “You know me better than anyone. You know me better than I know myself.”
She didn’t ease into him, but neither did she pull away. “That’s only wishful thinking on both our parts.”
“Then please,” he said, leaning so that his forehead rested against hers, “let us not stop wishing.”
She blinked quickly again. “Wishing is for fools.”
“No, it’s not, my love.”
Martha pulled back and looked up at him. “I don’t know that I can trust in simple wishes any more. I never know what’s coming my way from one day to the next; how can I paste on a smile and leap into the unknown simply because I wish for something good to come of it?”
“For what it’s worth, I know what’s coming tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.”
Her brow furrowed in question.
“I am,” Hugh stated. “I’m going to come by every day until you realize that it’s all right to trust in a future with us together. Problems find everyone eventually. But we’ve faced a few together already and come out—better for having seen them through together.”
She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she was thinking over his words carefully.
“We found a way for you to earn the m-m-money you and your family needed. We got Tim well again.”
Martha opened her mouth and seemed ready to hound him for that one.
Hugh put a hand up in surrender. “Which, granted, wouldn’t have had to happen at all if it hadn’t been for me in the first place.”
She closed her mouth, lips pursing. They were sweet, pink lips. His hand moved up to her cheek, his thumb caressing the soft skin there.
“I will be here in the days to come; that you can trust.”
“Can I?” There was a bit mo
re hope in her tone this time.
Hugh smiled. “Yes. Always. Then someday when I’ve earned your trust, I pray that you will be able to look forward to the future in peace instead of unease.”
Her smile slipped a bit. “Perhaps.”
She wasn’t ready yet; Hugh could accept that, so long as she could accept that he wasn’t giving up on her. He bent down and kissed her forehead lightly. “For now, letting me see you every day is enough.”
Martha walked quickly from the church house back toward home. Every day for just over a week now Hugh had been there when she’d returned from work. For the first couple of days, Peter had insisted he wait outside until Martha arrived and allowed him in. However, as of late, she often returned to find him on the floor, paper soldiers spread between him, Peter, and Tim.
She’d thought long and hard on the things Hugh had said to her, about her feeling peace when thinking of the future. Having Hugh around certainly helped in that regard. Oh, she could take care of herself, Grandfather, and the boys if she had to. But when Hugh was around, life seemed brighter, more hope-filled, more promising. Strange to think that such a large, surly man could do that, but there it was. Besides, he wasn’t nearly as surly as he’d made everyone think he was.
Sure enough, when Martha arrived home and opened the front door, she found Hugh sitting on the floor, Tim on one side, Peter on the other.
“To the stockades with you!” Peter cried, his paper soldier pointing toward Hugh’s.
“Again?” Hugh said.
“Stock-ades! Stock-ades!” Tim started to chant.
Hugh glanced up at her, lips pulled far to one side. “Being a soldier is hard.” He moved his paper soldier back and forth, making him appear to walk over to the edge of the rug where he laid the soldier down on its face. Peter and Tim picked up several small wads of paper and began chucking them at Hugh’s soldier.
“Take that!” Peter called. “And that!”
Martha shook her head at her brother’s clear excitement over Hugh’s demise.
Tim wasn’t far behind. “Rotten tomatoes and rotten potatoes and rotten apples!”
Hugh stood and moved up beside Martha. “I’m just glad I’m not actually a soldier.”