by Ruby Moone
Christy thought for a moment, and if he didn’t count the incredibly intense feeling Mr. Fenton elicited in him, he didn’t think he had. “No. I don’t believe so.”
“Then, are we in a position to judge?”
Christie thought for a moment and then sighed. “Yes, I think we can. March is a bully and a nasty bastard. And if she does love him, then he should think himself fortunate and worship the ground she walks on, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t look after her, he doesn’t look after his children…I think I can judge that.”
Mr. Fenton dropped his gaze and nodded before looking back up at him. “Yes, I think you can.”
Christy hesitated as he approached his mother’s house. All seemed quiet, no children were racing about. In fact, it was too quiet. He walked to the door and hesitated before knocking gently and then stepping back so that March couldn’t suddenly grab him.
His mother opened the door.
“Mama?”
They stared at each other for a moment, and then his mother smiled and held out her arms. He went into them, and folded her gently against him.
“How are you?” he stopped himself from demanding to know why she had gone.
“Well enough.”
“Is he in?”
His mother pulled back and nodded.
“I won’t come in, I just wanted to make sure that you were well.”
“Come in.”
“I’d best not. Don’t want to set him off.”
“He’s sober.”
Christy raised his eyebrows. He didn’t think he had ever seen Stanley March sober since the first days. “Where are the children?”
“With their grandparents.” His mother plucked at a piece of lint on Christy’s coat. They came and took them. They said that their daughter would want better for them.”
“They’d get no better than you,” Christie said, taking her fingers and kissing them. “But they need to be away from him.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“How did he take that?”
“He hasn’t said anything. Yet.”
“So what will you do?”
She squared her shoulders. “I’ll give him one more chance,” she said. Christy’s heart sank. “Not another…please!”
“Christy…”
“What if he kills you too next time?”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
The door opened and March stepped over the threshold. He looked dreadful. Pale, clammy skin, bloodshot eyes, and he appeared to have fine tremor to his hands. His nose was a mess and Christy felt glad. Christy stared at him and refused to be the first to look away. March’s gaze eventually gave.
“Treat her well,” Christy said.
His mother moved towards her man and he put an arm about her. She laid her head on his broad shoulder. Christy’s heart hurt. It felt as though she had made her choice. And it wasn’t him.
Chapter 6
“I’m going to look at a recipe book,” Christy announced over porridge. Lawrence glanced up. He seemed to be bouncing back somewhat. Regaining something of his enthusiasm. It had been desperately hard to watch him so saddened, so low.
“Dare I ask why?”
Christy’s grin was like sunshine. “I am going to make cakes. I am going to use some of the money you gave me for the enterprise to buy tea, coffee, and chocolate, and something to make biscuits and cakes with so with every drink I can offer a small cake or a biscuit.”
“Very well,” Lawrence said, trying very hard to keep his face straight. Christie’s blue eyes shone with that unquenchable enthusiasm, and his hair, still clean, just shone.
“You think I am silly, don’t you,” Christy said, looking at him warily and Lawrence was immediately contrite, and aware that he had probably been staring at him.
“Of course not,” he said, schooling his features into a frown. “I think it is a capital plan.”
Christy looked as though he might say something, but then he just smiled. It spread across his face slowly, eventually warming his eyes, and for a second, Lawrence wondered at what he saw there in those blue orbs. Christy looked away before Lawrence could determine it. Shaking his head, he got to his feet. His leg was aching abominably. It gave way and he grabbed the table. Christy was beside him immediately and held his arm tightly. He was grateful for the support but angry at needing it. He shook him off.
“Are you in pain?” Christy said, hovering.
Lawrence shook his head. “It’s just a little weak in the cold.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
Lawrence turned and Christy was closer than he realised. He froze. He could feel the warmth from Christy’s skin. Could see the texture of his lips. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
Christy’s gaze roamed over Lawrence’s face and settled on his mouth.
Lawrence swallowed as his skin broke out in gooseflesh.
“I’ll help you find a book,” he said. Christy jumped, and they moved apart.
Mr. Fenton was looking over his shoulder at the recipe for ginger cake. Christy tried to breathe normally but ever since that moment in the back room where they had stared at each other for agonisingly long moments Christy had been on edge. On edge and almost unbearably aroused. It was awful. He was certain that at any moment Mr. Fenton would see and be horrified.
“Perhaps you should ask your mother,” Mr. Fenton said as he scanned the instructions and pulled a doubtful face. “It seems like a lot of mess.”
Christy laughed but it sounded a little wild. “She explained to me how to make cakes and biscuits.”
“Perhaps I could pay her to make them?” Mr. Fenton said. Christy turned to look at him. He was frowning now, thinking.
“Pay her?”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know that March would let her. And I’m not too sure it is a good idea to bring you or the shop to March’s notice.” Christy felt uneasy at the thought. If March had any idea how important Mr. Fenton or the shop was to him he would be sure to want to ruin it in some way.
“Well, think about it. I can’t imagine that March doesn’t know where you work.” Mr. Fenton paused, and Christy thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t, he went through into the shop pondering what he had said. He hadn’t actually told March where he worked, they never spoke to each other, but Mr. Fenton was probably right. It chilled Christy to the bone to think that March could come and find him in the bookshop at any time.
Christy busied himself with plans, and nipped out whilst they were quiet to see if he could get a couple of cheap chairs. He came back with two, a bolt of fabric, and needle and thread. He carried them through the shop, one by one, bumping into the bookcases, and after apologising to customers, took them to the back room. He was inordinately proud of himself. It had cost him hardly anything at all. The chairs were ancient and battered but comfortable. The fabric he could fashion into a cover to go over them and they would be as new. He jumped when the door opened and Mr. Fenton came through.
“What on earth…” he said, staring at the chairs and the pile of fabric.
“I might not be very good at baking, but I do know how to sew.”
Mr. Fenton was still staring. “They look flea-bitten.” He looked up at Christy. “You can sew?”
“They don’t have fleas,” Christy said, horrified. “They were well kept, and yes, I can sew.”
“Christy…”
“Trust me,” Christy said. “Look, once I’ve finished they will look wonderful.” He picked up lengths of dark green cloth. “Just trust me. Please?”
Mr. Fenton gave him a long look and again, Christy couldn’t look away. Those clear grey eyes seemed to be probing for questions and Christy’s mouth went dry. He looked at the chairs afraid that Mr. Fenton might be able to see into his heart.
Mr. Fenton sighed. “I trust you.”
Christy hugged the words tight and felt a warmth in his chest that stayed with him as he sewed slip covers f
or the chairs.
Lawrence wondered at the words for the hundredth time. Trust him. Trust Christy. He’d trust him with his life. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Sometimes it felt as though Christy was dragging him back into the land of the living a piece at a time. Making him feel again, making him care. When he looked back over the last six months of his life he had gone from not giving a damn about anything, not caring about anyone, least of all himself, to this perpetual state of interest and anticipation. Anticipation at what Christy would do or say next. All because a slip of a lad wandered into his shop looking hungry and desperately in need of a friend and a purpose.
His chest hurt and he rubbed at it whilst watching Christy stitch covers quickly and place them over the old, battered chairs he had turned up with. He disappeared and came back with another piece of the cloth and put it over the tiny table he had found and then overlaid it with a white lace doily. He stood back to admire his creation, and Lawrence was forced to admit that it looked well. He put a sheet of paper on the table. Christy had laboured over his script to write the note inviting people to take a seat and offering refreshment.
He stood back and surveyed it anxiously. “What do you think?” he asked.
The fire blazed in the hearth, the room was warm and filled with the smell of woodsmoke, books, and leather, the chairs looked charming and inviting.
“It looks very well.”
Christy seemed to let go of his breath. He nodded. “Not too bad. Not too bad.”
Lawrence moved away and brought out a bag of holly he had purchased earlier. “I thought this might go on the mantel and around the fireplace.” He handed it to Christy who dived in and yelped as he pricked his fingers. Then he laughed delightedly and pulled out handfuls. He fashioned it across the top of the mantel, and then spread some on the hearth and added red and gold bows from the ribbon he had left from the window display. It did look terribly festive. When he pulled out a handful of mistletoe and held it up with a huge smile, Lawrence smiled with him.
“Mistletoe!” He waved it about and got to his feet. “Look.”
Lawrence’s heart did a funny flip in his chest. “Indeed,” he managed.
“We should tie some up and then people can take advantage.” He held it over his head and stood there like a cherub. Golden, bright, and infinitely good. Lawrence was stunned beyond belief when he realised that he ached to go and kiss him. Touch his lips to Christy’s and feel the softness of that generous mouth against his. Rub his nose softly against his, touch his lips to Christy’s cheek, his eyes, his ear and whisper how beautiful he was. How good he was. He wanted to feel Christy’s arms slide around his waist, Christy’s head on his shoulder whilst he unbuttoned Lawrence’s shirt…Lawrence’s chest constricted immediately, enough to make breathing difficult.
Completely unaware, Christy looked up at the mistletoe and laughed. He came over, held it over Lawrence’s head, and before Lawrence had the faintest notion of what he was going to do, Christy kissed him softly on the cheek.
Lawrence froze.
It seemed to take Christy a moment or two to realise that Lawrence wasn’t laughing with him. He wished he could, but he was immobile.
“Sorry,” Christy said, putting the mistletoe down. “You probably don’t want customers wandering about giving each other mistletoe kisses in your shop.” He looked awkward. “I probably shouldn’t have done that,” he said and swallowed.
Lawrence still couldn’t speak or move.
Christy put the mistletoe back in the bag.
Chapter 7
Mr. Fenton knew. Christy was sure of it. His face when looking at the mistletoe had spoken volumes. His expression of sheer horror when Christy had kissed him said it all. Christy burned all over every time he thought about what he had done. He still couldn’t believe he’d actually kissed him. Kissed Mr. Fenton. Christie shivered when he thought of the fleeting scent of Mr. Fenton he’d had, that moment of warmth, of closeness. Then he thought about the expression of shock and horror on Mr. Fenton’s face and felt cold and sick. He knew. Knew what Christy was. He couldn’t bear it.
He stood in the back room shivering with anxiety. He needed to check on his mother, so he got out his old clothes and prepared to change. He wouldn’t go in his work clothes in case March made another grab for him. He was pulling up his breeches when Mr. Fenton came into the room. He probably should have changed in his room, but the clothes were just to hand. He hurriedly stuffed his shirt in the waistband, buttoned his falls, ran his hands through his hair, and waited for the axe to fall.
Mr. Fenton was scowling at him. “What are you doing?” His tone was sharp.
Christy felt cold all over. “I’m going to check on my mother.” Was this it? Was he going to throw him out and tell him never to return? Tell him how disgusted he was? Christy stared at the floor and held his breath.
Mr. Fenton seemed to relax a little. “Do you want to take her anything?”
Christy’s heart fluttered in surprise. “I…ah…That is awfully kind, but anything I give her March will take so I don’t tend to take anything with me.”
Mr. Fenton nodded. “Give her my best regards.”
Christy stared at him, heart thumping. Was that it? Wasn’t he going to say anything?
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Mr. Fenton’s hair looked soft in the candlelight. Sparkles of silver caught the light and the soft lines at his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Christy wanted to put his lips there. That soft, lined skin by his eye. The crease of his cheek. He cleared his throat and pulled himself together before he made an even bigger fool of himself.
It was freezing cold. Christy pulled his coat around his chin and made his way back across the Piazza, past the enormous columns of the church, towards St Giles. It was two days before Christmas, and there was a merry buzz in the air as people hurried about, laughing and shouting. It was dark, so when Christy arrived at his mother’s house he could stand outside and peer through the window. He could see her, sitting in the chair by the fire sewing. He couldn’t see March anywhere so he risked tapping on the door.
It opened a crack, and his mother peeped out. A smile lit her face when she saw him. She pulled the door wide open.
“Come in.”
Christy stepped inside. The room was cold as the fire was very low. His mother wore two shawls and fingerless knitted gloves. Christy kicked himself for not bringing firewood and candles.
“Where’s March?”
His mother busied herself sitting Christy at the table. “Looking for work. He’s trying, Christy.”
Christy just nodded. “Still sober?”
His mother nodded, but didn’t quite meet his eye.
“Mama, if you ever need me…”
“I’m fine, truly I am.”
“If you need me, I will be staying at the bookshop for a couple of days.”
She frowned as she picked up a rag and took the kettle from the range and poured boiling water into a teapot. “Why?”
“They threw me out after March took you from my room.”
“Oh, Christy I’m so sorry.” She looked mortified.
Christy shook his head. “It’s of no matter. Mr. Fenton offered me accommodation until Christmas is over and I can look for something else. He’s a good man. If you need anything at all just come to the bookshop.”
His mother looked like she might cry.
“Promise me.”
She nodded as she put cups on the table. “Promise.”
“Will you also promise not to tell March where I am or where I work? I couldn’t bear it if he followed me to the shop.”
Colour touched her cheeks. “I promise.”
They drank tea in companionable silence. It was weak, used many, many times. His heart hurt. She needed food. Proper food. How could he stay at Fenton’s warm, dry and well fed whilst she was in such a state?
“You could always come and live with me, we could find somewhere together,” he said.
<
br /> She shook her head. “Christy, he’s my husband,” she said quietly.
Christy bit his lip to stop himself saying more. “I’ll come tomorrow with my wages.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” she whispered.
“I know, but it’s better than him coming and taking them. Less painful,” he tried to joke but it fell flat. He took another drink of his tea.
“Tell me again how to make biscuits?” he said after a while, changing the subject.
“Biscuits are easy,” she said, and proceeded to explain how to make them, and as she did so, the recipe he had looked at began to make sense. They talked about cakes, making bon-bons and they were both laughing at the thought of Christy up to his eyes in sugar and flour when March returned.
They both froze.
He walked into the room, put his coat and black hat on the hook behind the door, and then turned to them.
“Christy,” he said, and nodded.
Christy nodded back.
They eyed each other warily as his mother went about pouring a mug of tea for him. He flopped into his chair by the fire and eyed the dying embers.
“I’d best go,” he said in a low voice to his mother. She just nodded.
He got to the door before March spoke. “You got anything for me?”
Christy didn’t turn around. “Tomorrow.”
March took a loud slurp of his tea, testing the heat, and then drank it all noisily.
Christy glanced back and watched March get up again, put his mug on the table, wipe the back of his hand over his mouth, and walk towards the door where Christy stood.
“Where are you going?” his mother said, picking up the empty mug and wrapping her hands around it, holding it to her chest.
“Out. I’m hungry and there doesn’t seem to be anything here.”
“Stanley…”
March shouldered past Christy, walked through the door, and slammed it behind him.
Christy made his way back to the shop, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold and rain, deep in thought. Perhaps his mother could make the biscuits and cakes for the shop. Perhaps he could pay her out of his wages, because until he found somewhere else to live, his living expenses were nothing. Perhaps he should simply stop giving March his wages. Perhaps they wouldn’t need as much if the children had gone to live with their grandparents. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.