A Victorian Christmas

by Lorraine Beaumont

  “No. That can’t be right.” She shook her head in denial even though some part of her was buying it. Heck, she was outside, in a place that looked….

  “Oh, no, no, no…. This cannot be what Mrs. Flint meant when she said she would need what she gave her to keep her warm on her travels. “I am outside, in a blizzard, well it’s snowing, and the cloak is keeping me warm….but what does that mean…exactly?” She had thought Mrs. Flint was spouting gibberish like she always did…

  “Oh, no, my wish…” Patting her chest, she felt around for the amulet. Thankfully, it was still on her neck. But what did that mean?

  ”Okay, okay, no need to freak out… yet….” Her mind spun through different variables and they all led back to Mrs. Flint, the cloak, the necklace and the gentlemen she had met in Byron’s building. Was it all a coincidence or was something much larger at play?

  “Ugh!” She fisted her hands and stomped her feet. She didn’t know what to believe and she was getting cold in spite of the cloak. It may have had something to do with the fact she only had on her polar bear flannel pajama bottoms, an old t-shirt from Disney world with Cruella de Ville on the front, and a hoodie that said, Defy Gravity from the matinee she had seen of “Wicked” on Broadway, forever ago. The pair of fuzzy socks with lobsters on them from her one trip to Maine wasn’t doing much to keep her feet warm in her boots, either. She was a mish-mash, just like her apartment. No wonder Byron dumped her… asshole. If it weren’t for Byron she would have never wished to be someplace else. And now look, she was …well she didn’t know where.

  “Am I dreaming or am I delusional?” She shivered. “Well I don’t think I am dreaming. I might be delusional though.” She shivered again.

  The cold spurred her to move in the only direction that seemed an option right now. She was going to the castle in the distance; she only hoped she made it there before she turned into a frozen Popsicle.

  Ravenhurst, the Library

  “I hope Grayson’s niece is pretty,” said Katherine, sitting heavily on the sofa and propping her feet up.

  “Wife,” Sebastian said, lifting his brow in warning. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing…” She gave him a look of innocence. “I was just making conversation.”

  “Right,” he said doubtfully. “Now tell me, what are you up to?” He lifted her legs and placed them on his lap.

  “Fine,” she sighed. “I am hoping Grayson’s niece is pretty so maybe she and Devlin can… you know…” She widened her eyes.

  His brows creased. “So they can what…exactly?” he prodded.

  “Oh, you know.” She shifted uneasily.

  “No, I do not or I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “Did you hear that?” she asked, looking trapped.

  “No.”

  “I think I hear Cook calling for me to sample some of her newly made confections.” She tried to move but Sebastian held her feet.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “You are going to tell me what trouble you are trying to stir up.”

  “Why do you always assume I am going to stir up trouble?”

  “Because you usually do, that is why.”

  “I already told you, it was not my fault Marguerites mother tried to kill you. That was Isabelle’s fault.”

  “I am not talking about that.” He raked his hand through his hair.

  “Then what are you trying to say, husband?” She pursed her lips together.

  “Why are you so hell bent on fixing Devlin up with someone?” He rubbed her leg, massaging the calf. “Perhaps he is happy staying on at Hawthorne, alone.”

  “That feels good.” She ignored his question and leaned further back in the cushions.

  “I will stop if you do not answer me.”

  She slanted her eye open. He didn’t look like he was kidding this time. “Oh, all right.” She made a face. “He is lonely.”

  “How do you know, did he tell you?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me, but he seems sad every time he sees us together.”

  “That is because he wants you and didn’t get you.”

  “No, it’s not that. He doesn’t feel that way about me…” Katherine stopped when he lifted his brow, with a doubtful look on his face. “Okay, maybe he did, for a while, but we are only friends now. He is like a brother to me.”

  “You know,” he paused stroking his chin in thought, “not too long ago it was perfectly acceptable for a sister and a brother to marry to keep the bloodlines pure.”

  “What?” She gaped at him. “That is…well, not right.”

  “Well no, it was not right and it turns out most of the offspring of such a match ended up certifiably insane.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I am only pointing out his feelings for you may be a bit more than the platonic relationship you think you have with him. Mayhap he is hoping to get you away from me…or at the very least, his intentions may not be as pure as you think. Men do not usually become friends with women unless they want more from the relationship.”

  “Don’t be silly. Devlin is not in love with me…” Her brows creased. Is he?

  “I see you are giving it some thought.” He lifted his brow.

  “Fine.” She chewed on her lip. “I am not saying he is but it is all the more reason to fix him up with someone else …right?”

  “Now that you put it that way…what can I do to help?” He gave her a devilish grin.

  “Keep rubbing my legs and I will give it some thought.”

  “I will do more than that,” he said, moving his hand even higher.

  Chapter Seven: The Past, Hawthorne Manor

  “On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me…seven swans a swimming”

  A scraping sound woke Devlin this time. At least he thought he had been sleeping, dreaming that he had seen his mother and that she had told him she loved him. Ordinarily, any dream with his mother in it would have been a nightmare, but how it had ended was good. And once all his tears were spent he felt much better than he had in a very long time. He guessed he had drifted off to sleep, for the fire had died down and only red glowing embers remained. Wiping his eyes, he stood and walked over to the fireplace. He bent down and tossed another log on the coals. Reaching over, he grabbed the poker and stoked the coals until the log caught fire.

  Again he heard a scraping sound. With the poker held firmly in his grasp, he jumped up.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  He wasn’t sure why he called out. On some level he knew he was probably just imagining things but the fine hair on the back of his neck lifted, which was a good indicator something was about to happen. And if it was true to form, as hair lifting goes, it wouldn’t be anything good either.

  “I guess you weren’t expecting me,” said a deep voice emerging from the shadows.

  “Who…who…are you?” Devlin’s eyes boggled.

  The man in question had sandy blonde hair, much like his own. He was dressed in fine clothing and held a wrapped package in his hand. “Hello, son…”

  Devlin stumbled back in shock. “What did you just say to me?”

  “You are my son, I suppose.”

  “You do not know?” Devlin laughed suddenly. “This is good.” Shaking his head, he wasn’t sure why this didn’t surprise him more.

  “That’s a loaded question.” The man lifted an elegant hand and smoothed his hair. “I realize this may be poor timing on my part,” he said, shrugging his lean shoulders.

  “Well, obviously.” Devlin figured if he was imagining his absentee father, one he never met, he may as well go all in and at least find out what the man wanted. “What do you want?”

  “Apparently I am here for a reason, to make amends, perhaps.” Again he shrugged, and looked around the room. “I see you haven’t done too badly for yourself, though.”

  “Why now?” Devlin had to ask.

  “If truth were to be told, I am not really sure.”

  “Are yo
u dead, too?”

  “I wasn’t but…now,” he paused, looking around, “I might be.”

  Devlin felt his chest tighten. “Well, you may leave. I do not have anything to say to you.”

  “I would if I could, but…I am here, so, I suppose I have yet to do what I was set here to do.” He looked contemplative. “Any idea what that may be?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Might I have a drink, I find I am parched suddenly.”

  “Ah, sure…” Devlin lifted his hand toward the sideboard. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” The man limped over to the sideboard. Lifting one of the crystal stoppers, he set it down and poured a drink. “Would you care for one?”

  “Sure.” Devlin warily watched him. If he was a ghost how could he get a drink? A shiver of dread washed over him. Was he dead, too? He must be for why else would he be seeing a father he had never known. Of course the man could be lying. But why would he lie? Devlin narrowed his eyes. Mayhap the man was a vagrant, looking for a place to wait out the storm. Of course, the pit of his belly told him differently. Besides, if the man was indeed a vagrant, why would he call him son?

  Taking a sip from the glass, the man shut his eyes. “This is good,” he said, turning, reopening his eyes. He was no taller than Devlin and there were definite similarities between the two of them, but still he didn’t know what to believe. First his mother and now his would be father? In one night…it was too much.

  Walking slowly toward Devlin, the man held out the other glass. The package now tucked under his arm.

  “Thanks.” Devlin took the drink. In spite of the brave front he was putting on, his hand trembled.

  “You do not need to be afraid of me, boy.”

  “I am not a boy.” Devlin pushed back his shoulders and tried to stand taller. “I am a man.”

  “You are barely out of the schoolroom.”

  “I beg to differ…” he scoffed. “ I am a man and have been since I was thirteen years old.”

  “Barely,” he muttered and then took a hefty swallow of his drink. He turned, bringing his black gaze to the tree in the corner. “The tree is a nice touch.”

  Devlin frowned and then tossed back his drink in one gulp. “I think so.”

  “Would you like another?”

  “Another of what?” asked Devlin.

  “Would you like another drink?” The man looked down at his now empty glass.

  “Sure.” Devlin handed out his glass. The man took it and limped back to the sideboard.

  “Why are you limping?” Devlin didn’t mean to ask the question out loud.

  “I fell down a flight of stairs, when I was not much older than you are now,” he said, pouring another two drinks.

  “What happened to you, I mean, how did you fall?”

  “Actually, I was pushed.” The man laughed.

  “By whom?” asked Devlin, not sure why he was even interested.

  “You don’t remember?” He lifted his brow, turning with two filled glasses in his hands. He limped back over to Devlin and once again handed out the other glass.

  Taking it from his outstretched hand, Devlin moved back to the fireplace. He wanted to be closer to the poker, in case.

  “I went to visit your mother…but I waited too long,” he said, a deep sadness in his voice and etched on his face.

  Devlin felt sick. “You used my mother…tossed her aside like she was of no consequence when she told you she was pregnant with me.”

  “Is that what she told you?” He waved off his comment. “I guess she must have.”

  “Are you trying to deny it?” Devlin asked surprised by how angry he was getting.

  “Not really,” he answered. “But that is not what happened, exactly.” He rubbed his brow and his gold ring flashed under the lights. “There are two sides to every story, you know.”

  “Actions speak louder than words, and I have never seen you before,” Devlin parried.

  “Oh but you have…son.”

  Devlin gritted his teeth. “Stop calling me that.”

  “Well it is the truth, whether you like it or not.” He lifted his brow.

  “Would you get to the point already?” Devlin had a feeling the man wasn’t going anywhere.

  “May I sit?”

  Devlin sighed, having his thoughts confirmed. “I suppose.” What would be the point in denying the man? Like his mother’s visit from…well… beyond, she had had her say before she disappeared. So it would seem likely the same would need to happen before this man too, faded back to wherever he had come from. Resigning himself to his temporary fate, Devlin too, took his own seat across from the man…his supposed father. At this close range he could see there were definite similarities between the two of them. The man was handsome to be sure and his eyes were just as black as Devlin’s were. And he did seem to have a taste for fine clothing as well.

  “Aren’t you curious as to where you have seen me before?” prompted the man, his onyx eyes glinting in the dim firelight.

  “Not really.” Devlin gave him a pointed look and then caved. He did want to know where he had seen him. “Fine,” he exhaled. Besides, it wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter.

  “It was quite some time ago, so it is not surprising you do not remember me, per se.”

  “Yes, yes, I have already heard you say that. Can you speed this along? I need some sleep before my guests arrive tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” he said and took another drink. “Where would you like to start?”

  “Damned if I know.” Devlin frowned at the flames in the fire.

  “You know, I was a lot like you, when I was your age.”

  “I doubt that,” he said, taking in his fine clothing, and polished mannerisms. This man didn’t live on the streets, like he did. “What difference does that make?” Devlin looked at him.

  “I guess it doesn’t.” He shook his head. “It was just an observation.”

  “If what you say is true…” He lifted his brows and shrugged.

  “Why is it so hard to believe that I am your father?”

  “Hmm, let’s see.” He tapped his chin in feigned thought. “Oh I know, it may have something to do with the fact I have never seen you before your impromptu visit here tonight, that’s why.” He shook his glass, making the dark liquid swirl in the bottom.

  “I suppose that is the way you would see it. But I have seen you before.”

  “So you keep telling me,” he deadpanned, seemingly unfazed by the comment. But he was barely holding it together.

  The man set the box on the table between them, toying with the little bow on the top.

  Devlin looked at it. The packaging was nice; it looked like a present. “What is that?” he heard himself asking even though that had not been his intent.

  “This…” He lifted the box again. “It is a gift.”

  “That’s obvious.” He rolled his eyes suddenly irritated. “Who is it for?”

  “I had this gift when I visited you, a long time ago.”

  “So what are you still doing with it?”

  “I have carried it with me, on my person, for years,” he explained. “It is a reminder, of sorts,” he muttered and set the box back down. Lifting his glass again, he took another drink.

  “Can you get on with it?” Devlin was antsy. He wanted to get out of this dream, for surely it was nothing more. Yes, he was sure it was some strange dream conjured in his mind, for what reason, he knew not, but apparently, it needed to play itself out. He just wanted it to be over with. Anything unpleasant in his life he tried to get away from, distance himself, so it wouldn’t be so close to him. After his mother passed and was buried, he left their home, living on the streets, just so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of her.

  The problem was her image had stuck with him, even when he was not at their home. Instead, not a day went by that he did not think of his mother. So, seeing her tonight…well, it was a gift. He was sure he had that same c
onversation in his mind with her a million times but she had never said she loved him, not until tonight and that in itself was an even bigger gift/blessing. Unfortunately, it also inadvertently left a larger void in his heart than he had before. For now, he truly wished he had more time with her, to hug her, to tell her how much she meant to him. To be the little boy he once was. But it was too late. And now he could only visit her in his dreams…his eyes closed.

  Memories came back to him unbidden…

  The Past – Fleet Street

  It was his thirteenth birthday. “Mother…” he called, running at a breakneck pace into their little home. Skidding to a halt, he looked around at the small area.

  The smell of freshly washed clothing hung in the air. A rope hung across the length of the room drying the wet clothing in front of the fire. A kettle was in the hearth, bubbling with some kind of stew. Mostly scraps from the butcher next door, who she “entertained” on occasion, and some vegetables she had gathered. It was a meal though and it smelled good. He was hungry, but that was nothing new. Being poor made you hungry…but it wasn’t always for food, no, being poor made you hungry for all the things you couldn’t have.

  “Mother…” he called again, tearing up the stairs. The door to her room was shut which meant one thing: she was busy with one of her many guests.

  Noises coming from her room were nothing new considering what his mother did to make a living for them. He was about to sneak back down the stairs and come back later after her guest had left but he heard something else, something he wasn’t used to hearing. This time she was not moaning about some man’s prowess in bed, no, she was yelling about something different. Sliding back into the shadows, he fisted his hands to his ears and endured the terrifying sounds coming from her room. He almost walked in, but he was afraid of what she would do to him if he bothered her. He would get beat with the walking stick she kept by her bed. The beating didn’t matter much though, what scared him most of all was her anger. She would be so angry with him. She was always angry with him. So he waited and waited…