The Mistletoe Kiss

by Ruby Moone

  Lawrence crumpled into the chair by the fire against which Christy had been leaning. He took a deep breath and scrubbed his face with one hand. What in God’s name were they to do? If March was the ape that Lawrence had seen in his brief foray into the stews where Christy lived, they had a serious problem. March was a big brute. A mean-spirited bully at that. He imagined he’d be the kind that charmed his way into women’s beds and then took everything that he could.

  Heaving a sigh, he got to his feet and went back into the shop where he opened his safe, the one that was hidden behind the rather large portrait of a cavalier on the wall. He took out his set of throwing knifes and secreted one in his boot, another one in his inside pocket beside the knife that was always there, and one on the desk by his inkwell where visitors should not be able to see. He took out a short bladed sword that he propped out of sight by his desk. The knives he was more than comfortable with. The deformity in his hip and leg meant that any form of unarmed combat would have him at a complete disadvantage, but he had spent his entire youth honing his throwing skills to reduce the feeling of abject helplessness that had haunted him following the taunts, blows, and names from school because of his lameness. He’d learned to keep people at bay and stop the attack before it landed. He paused and rubbed his chest, wondering for a moment if that wasn’t a metaphor for his entire life. Keep it at bay and don’t allow it to affect him. He shook his head. If that were the case, then Christy Shaw had barrelled his way through every last defence he thought he had.

  He hesitated a moment, and then brought down his brace of pistols. It was some time since they had seen action, but he kept them cleaned and primed, so he put them in the large drawer of his desk and locked it. Feeling marginally more secure, he opened the shop, then sat and waited.

  Christy pushed open the door to Mr. Fenton’s room cautiously, and peered inside. It felt like he was prying. The room was cold and neat, with very little in it. A bed, a cabinet by its side, a wardrobe, and a small table and chair by the window. On the chair was a white shirt, and beneath it, a pair of brown shoes which sat neatly side by side. The room smelled of wood smoke, wooden furniture, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it was a pleasantly masculine. He supposed that he should lay on the top of the coverlet, but it was freezing in the room, and he wore nothing but damp breeches. He hesitated, but then stripped them off and laid them over the back of the other chair, stripped off his stockings and then, wearing nothing but threadbare smalls, climbed beneath the covers, put the towel on the pillow, and lay down. The warmth soaked into him and the scent that clung to the room and the bed linen soothed him. As he drifted away, he realised that the scent he couldn’t quite identify was Mr. Fenton. He breathed it in. Pure Mr. Fenton.

  After arming himself and bracing himself for March, of course, nothing happened. He dealt with a few customers and reassured them all that naught was amiss with Christy. It was surprising how much he brought to the pleasant atmosphere in the shop. He chatted to people, passed the time of day, showed them around, helped them to find things with such relaxed charm and unabashed enthusiasm, things Lawrence was hopeless at. He tried, but he realised how much he had come to rely on Christy to take up the role of charming host and along with it, do all the running about to find just the right book. Mrs. Anderton, however, was quite distraught at finding Christy missing. Most others accepted his absence, but for Mrs. Anderton he found himself having to dissemble and make up a story.

  “He took a nasty tumble last night and is feeling a little under the weather,” he said. It might help to explain any remaining visible bruising. “He will be back with us before too long.”

  Mrs. Anderton was a charming lady. Probably approaching her seventies and terribly handsome with curls of silver visible beneath her neat bonnet. She held a hand to her throat. “Is someone caring for him? I’ve heard of dreadful things occurring after a fall.”

  “He is being well cared for.”

  “Such an amiable young man. So kind. So patient. He helped me to find just the right gifts for my niece and my grandchildren, you know. I have them wrapped and waiting for them.”

  “Well, only three days to go until the festive season is upon us,” Lawrence said with as much of a jolly a smile as he could muster.

  “Do you have family Mr. Fenton?”

  “The shop will be closed on Christmas Day as most people will be with family,” he said, sidestepping the question.

  “Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it. So you will be spending the day with loved ones.”

  Lawrence grit his teeth a little as he smiled and manfully ignored the steely glint in her eye. “Will you be spending the day with family?”

  “Oh, no, dear. They all have lives of their own now. I shall be quite happy, but…if you and Mr. Shaw did find yourselves alone, then you would be more than welcome to join me.” She smiled something of a knowing smile and Lawrence wasn’t sure what she was hinting at, so he smiled awkwardly in return.

  “That is terribly kind of you.”

  “Not at all. Neighbours should stick together.”

  “Of course.” As far as he was aware, Mrs. Anderton had a small house on Maiden Lane, not far at all from the shop.

  She patted him on the arm, and he ushered her out of the shop. Loved ones. He thought of his loved ones for a moment. He was the only one left. From a family of five siblings, he was the only one left. From the carnage that had been his marriage, he was the only one left. He shook his head and headed back to his desk.

  He managed to engage himself for another hour and then decided he would perhaps close the shop for lunch and waken Christy to ensure that he ate. The door tinkled again and he jumped. It was Mrs. Anderton again.

  “There you are,” she said, walking towards the desk with something of a purposeful air. She placed a jar in front of him. There was a piece of cloth covering the top tied by string.

  Lawrence swallowed and looked at it. “Ah…thank you?”

  Mrs. Anderton pushed it a little closer to him. “It is for Mr. Shaw,” she explained. “For his bruises. My mother used to swear by it.”

  Lawrence was touched. He picked up the jar and smiled at her. “Thank you. I will make sure that he gets it.”

  When she had gone, he opened the jar and sniffed at the ointment within. It was faintly floral, nothing too ghastly. In his experience any kind of medication either tasted or smelled vile. This was neither. He locked the door behind her and turned the notice to ‘closed’, and then made his way upstairs.

  Christy was curled under his blanket in a tight ball as though he was trying not to take up too much space. Trying not to exist. He had been right about his hair. Guinea gold curls lay about his head and in sleep he looked terribly young. Too young. Lawrence rubbed his chest.

  “Mr. Shaw,” he said, and shook his shoulder gently. Christy jumped and jerked awake, sitting up and looking around him.

  “Steady,” Lawrence said and put out a hand to touch him on the shoulder. Christy looked down at the hand so he removed it.

  “It is time for luncheon. Are you hungry?”

  Christy blinked a few times and then yawned hugely and stretched. His torso was naked. Hairless, naked, and creamy gold in the pale light. He scratched his flat belly and then pushed the covers back and swung his legs to the floor. “I’m sorry, I was freezing so I got under the covers.”

  “Don’t apologise,” Lawrence said and went to get Christy’s breeches which lay over the back of the chair. They felt damp. He squeezed them and held them to his face to check.

  “Still wet,” he said when he noticed Christy looking at him oddly. He cleared his throat and put them down. He went to his wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black breeches and some stockings. “Here. Borrow these until they dry. They should fit. We aren’t too much apart in height and build.” He was taller and broader than Christy but that was probably because he had a good fifteen years on him. Possibly more. Possibly twenty.

  Chri
sty took hold of them and smiled shyly.

  “Oh, and Mrs. Anderton brought you this,” he said and held out the jar.

  Christy took it, looking at it this way and that. “What is it?”

  “Ointment for your bruises. She was most distressed to find you missing and I found myself having to construct a tale as to why you were not there. I said you had taken a tumble and she was most concerned. Returned with this. Apparently, you should rub it on the bruises.”

  Christy smiled and it lit up his face. “That is so kind,” he said, and took off the top. He sniffed, cautiously, and then smiled some more. He scooped up a little on his finger and applied some to his arm and then his leg. He twisted to get to his ribs but couldn’t reach. Lawrence’s mouth was a little dry.

  “Would you?” Christy said holding out the pot.

  Lawrence limped over and took it. He quickly smeared the gooey substance on the bruises in question and the gestured to Christy’s neck. He rubbed gently, but quickly on the bruises not wanting to linger over the warm skin. “You will need to wear your cravat quite high to avoid these being on display.”

  Christy nodded. His eyes looked sleepy and he swayed a little but then caught himself and blinked rapidly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Yes.”

  Lawrence wanted to take him into his arms again, and hold him tightly, so badly it surprised him and he had to move away. He cleared his throat. Perhaps this was the consequence of having no family left. There was no natural outlet for a man’s protective instincts, and it certainly seemed that the full brunt of his undeniably protective nature was being focused onto Christy.

  Christy got out of the bed and turned his back on Lawrence whilst he stepped into the breeches and fastened them. He hurriedly donned the rest of the clothing and ran his fingers through his hair. Lawrence passed him a comb and a pot of pomade. He quickly tamed it, and then smiled.

  “Ready.”

  “Why don’t you go and check on your mother and then get us something to eat on your way back?” Lawrence handed him enough coin to purchase food, enough for him to get something for his mother if needs be.

  Christy took it with a smile and headed for the stairs. Lawrence followed slower, frowning as he watched him disappear quickly down the stairs.

  Chapter 5

  Christy pushed open the door cautiously, in case his mother was still asleep. He had enough money in his pocket to get whatever she needed, even to call for a physician, thanks to Mr. Fenton, so if she was still poorly at least he could bring help.

  “Mama?” he whispered into the gloom. A thin curtain was pinned across the single, small window so there was not much light. It didn’t take a lot of light, however, to reveal the room was empty. His heart sank and a wave of pure frustration poured over him. Had she gone back to him? Surely not. He sat on the bed, head in his hands. He scrubbed his face. He would have to go back to the house and find out. If that risked bumping into March, well, so be it. He heaved himself up and was about to leave when a peremptory knock on the door made him jump. Bracing himself, he opened it half expecting March, but was surprised to find his landlord, Mr. Wilson, standing there with an unpleasant look on his jowly face.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Wilson, how can I help you?” He smiled as best he could.

  “When I let you take this room it was on the understanding that there were no overnight guests, no visitors, and no funny business.” His brows drew lower and lower as he spoke.

  “I know, I understand, but last night was an emergency,” he said.

  “I don’t care what it was. I had reservations about letting the room to you and I was right. I will not have that kind of people in my house. How dare you expose me and mine up to such…such…villainy.”

  “Villainy?” Horror gripped Christy by the throat. “What happened? Tell me what happened?”

  “Don’t you dare speak to me like that,” Mr. Wilson spluttered.

  “Mr. Wilson, it was my mother who stayed last night and her husband is a brutal man. If he came and found her I really need to know. Please. Please tell me.”

  Mr. Wilson was going a peculiar shade of purple. He gave a nasty laugh. “Mother indeed. The gentleman who called told me exactly what was going on. Now you have one minute to gather your belongings and get out or I’m locking the door and throwing it all on the fire.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I can do whatever I like.”

  Christy wanted to scream. He went back into the room and threw his meagre possessions into a bag, handed the key to Mr. Wilson and headed for the stairs.

  “Did the ‘gentleman’ who took her have a busted nose and black hair?”

  Mr. Wilson just glared so Christy ran down the stairs and out into the street. The bag wasn’t heavy, but it was cumbersome. After a moment, he decided to take it to the shop and then set out to find her. He called and collected pies from the pie man and headed back. It wasn’t far from his room in St Giles to Covent Garden so he broke into a jog.

  When he went through the door of the bookshop there were a couple of people in the shop so he headed straight for the back room to deposit his bag and Mr. Fenton’s lunch. He was stopped by both customers who enquired after his health. He was terribly touched and reassured them that he was hale and hearty, and then slipped into the back room. Mr. Fenton was attending to customers, so he had a moment to himself. He stowed his bag at the back of the room and put the paper bag with pies in on a plate on the table. He left them covered as he had no idea how long it would take before Mr. Fenton could eat. He went back into the shop, and the last of the customers was handing over coins to Mr. Fenton who was writing a receipt for the purchase. When they were alone, Christie approached him.

  “How was she?”

  Christie’s hands were shaking. “Gone. He took her.”

  “Good God…” Mr. Fenton looked horrified.

  “He came and caused a disturbance so my landlord has thrown me out.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I hope you don’t mind, but I put my things in the back room. There isn’t much, but I don’t know what else to do with it, and I need to go and find her.”

  “Leave it as long as you need to.” Mr. Fenton cleared his throat. “I have a spare room if you want to stay here until you find yourself alternative accommodation. Christmas is approaching so I doubt you will get settled until that is over.”

  There was a lump in Christy’s throat. “You are altogether far too kind to me,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where I would be without you.”

  “Nonsense. Come, let me show you.” He locked the shop door and turned the sign to closed, then headed to the stairs. Christy took his bag and followed.

  Christy stood in Mr. Fenton’s spare bedroom. It was neat and tidy, like everything else, with a large bed, a chair and table, and a cupboard. Not dissimilar to Mr. Fenton’s own room. Christy took his things from his bag and put them away. He emptied the bag and looked at his possessions. It amounted to nothing. His chest hurt. Mr. Fenton had come in and tried to make the bed up with clean sheets, but Christy had taken them off him. He couldn’t possibly ask him to wait on him, not after the kindness he had already shown. So here he was. In a lovely room with clean sheets, a warm fire, a seemingly endless supply of candles, warm food and books, whilst his mother lived in a hovel with a madman and six children. He slumped on the bed and covered his eyes with his hand. It wasn’t even as though he could find another job that paid better to give her more. Jobs were damned hard to find since the end of the war with Napoleon, and all the thousands of soldiers who had fought were suddenly returned. At least he was healthy and could get work. When he looked at some of the men who had limbs missing, eyes missing…it was shocking that a man could give all for his country and be so poorly served on his return.

  The door opened and Mr. Fenton popped his head around. “Are you going to find your mother?”

  Christy nodded. “Yes. I need to make sure that she is safe.”

  “Eat first.” He disap
peared and Christy listened to his hesitant step as he made his way down the staircase. Christy followed and went into the shop expecting it to by busy again, but the door seemed to be still locked.

  “Are we still closed?” he said.

  Mr. Fenton frowned and nodded. “Until we decide what to do, yes.”

  “You can’t close two days before Christmas,” Christy said, feeling agitated.

  “I can pretty well do what I like. One of the benefits of owning one’s business.”

  “I know you can, but should you?” Christy was imagining all the lost sales, all because of him and grew quite agitated.

  “Christy. This is a crisis. When in a crisis a man needs space to think. Now sit down, eat your pie, and drink some tea. A man also needs a full belly to deal with a crisis otherwise his judgement may be impaired. Badly.”

  Christy blinked several times and then followed Mr. Fenton into the kitchen and did as he was told.

  “Now,” Mr. Fenton said, as he wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Now, we find your mother and see what needs to be done.”

  “I think she went back to him. It’s become like a…a horrible game. He gets drunk, shouts at her, hurts her and frequently me, sobers up, apologises, and weeps all over her, and she goes back.”

  Mr. Fenton frowned. “If a person has nowhere else to go, sometimes they are forced to stay even in the most trying of circumstances.”

  “I took her to my room. Gave her a bed and food. She could have stayed there, but he came around and I’ll wager a penny to a pound wept like a babe, said he was sorry, and she forgave him.”

  Mr. Fenton rubbed his mouth, frowning.

  “I think she loves him.”

  “I see.”

  “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Fenton?”

  Mr. Fenton looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Have you?”