Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance

by Carol Rivers

  Seasonal weather, she thought happily. Cold, gritty weather. Best of all, tobacco weather!

  Drawing on her cape, she took two pennies from her purse and went outside. The cold air grazed her face but the weak, hopeful voices of the frozen singers raised her spirits. Raggle-taggle men and women and two small children shivering under worn out-shawls and holed overcoats, but singing all the same.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ she wished them.

  The boy and girl, scarlet-cheeked and skinny as reeds held out their frozen hands.

  The coins fell into eager palms. ‘Thanks, missus. Gawd bless yer.’

  Ettie watched them hurry off – a band of brothers and sisters, reminding her of life before Silver Street. A year ago, she had awaited her fate at the orphanage. The bishop’s directive had separated her forever from the orphans of the Sisters of Clemency; little innocents, bundled off to an unknown fate in a farmer’s cart. She had prayed every night and each Sunday at church for Kathy Squires, Johnny Dean, the twins Megan and Amy and her dear lost friend, Michael Wilson.

  Snowflakes melted on her nose as she watched people trudging along. For her, a safe shelter awaited in the salon. For many, there was only hardship and poverty this Christmas.

  On her return, she shook off her cape and took her place behind the counter.

  Every shelf was now replenished by this morning’s delivery from the Tobacco Dock wholesalers. Paying their account from her profits had seemed like a dream come true.

  ‘No,’ Ettie said aloud as she hung a sprig of holly from the frame of the portrait. ‘Not a dream, but the answer to a prayer.’ Her eyes lifted to Rose Benjamin, now the occupier of the space where the three-hand illustration had once hung. ‘Thank you,’ Ettie murmured, her eyes locking with the blue gaze of the young woman who resembled so distinctly the countenance of her only son.

  Rose was now her daily companion and mentor. With Rose’s image dominating the salon, Ettie greeted her customers in a confident manner. She had memorized a new speech and was determined to deliver it before the customer could turn tail and run.

  ‘Good morning,’ she would welcome, positioning herself directly below the imposing portrait. ‘On behalf of Mrs Rose Benjamin and her son, Lucas, the salon welcomes you. I am honoured to act as representative for the family.’ Proudly she would indicate the certificate she had mounted and framed on the glass cabinet.

  This was a startling event, even for regular customers. There had been many occasions when a jaw or two had fallen open and refused to close. But Ettie was relentless. For it was sink or swim, a decisive profit or a humiliating loss.

  ‘On closer inspection,’ she would continue, ‘you will see the document is signed by dukes and archdukes of the kingdom, clerics and lords, politicians and celebrities. Our ranges of tobaccos are unparalleled. And of course, we are proud to stock this silver, engraved fob watch cutter.’ She would then take out a small box that stored the newly arrived appliance. The metal gleamed under the light of the lamps as she held it up for inspection. ‘With this new device, a side of your cigar is removed and on closure, the tab acts as security for finger and thumb. A small loop on the chain can be attached to the waistcoat and used to impress a gentleman’s friends and colleagues.’ She would coil the cutter invitingly into the box. ‘Mr Benjamin has left a small, select, supply of cigars, cigarillos and cheroots and recommends that the cutter be tested out in the comfort of our smoking room.’

  This suggestion had even the coolest customer rocking on his heels in order to claim a demonstration.

  Chapter 21

  The letter arrived a week before Christmas. Ettie recognized Lucas’s handwriting at once.

  With trembling hands, she lifted the lightly tinted paper sealed by wax. Trying to calm her emotions, she carried it to the counter and sat on the stool beneath the portrait.

  ‘From your son,’ Ettie told Rose. ‘I shall read it to you.’

  Her habit each day now was to address Lucas’s mother, for the shop’s increase in trade had come – whether by fate or heavenly intervention – since that evening when she had hung the portrait. Ettie wasn’t usually given to superstition. However, it felt comforting to imagine Rose’s guiding presence. Just as she imagined her mother’s. And now there was a letter from abroad!

  She drew her fingers across the envelope; Miss Henrietta O’Reilly, Benjamin & Son. Salon of Quality Tobaccos. Silver Street. Soho. London. England.

  Henrietta! She hadn’t been called by that name for many years. Taking a slim knife from the drawer, she slipped its sharp tip beneath the seal. A single sheet of notepaper slid out.

  Lucas’s flowing, looped handwriting caused her heart to swerve. Was it good news or bad?

  ‘Clinic les Montagnes, St Moritz, Switzerland,’ she read. ‘My dear Ettie, I hope this letter finds you well and does, with all haste, arrive before December 25th. I shall not enquire about the salon. I trust you will tell me all in your returning letter.

  From Paris we rented a coach and hired a maid, after which we set out for Switzerland. Good fortune was with us. Clara’s spirits held up. Had I been aware of the challenges of this arduous adventure, I may never have left London. But finally, in Davos, we settled in a hotel, where we heard of great healing successes, comparable to the climatic resorts of the Mediterranean. Our sojourn here was brief. We ventured on to this famed sanatoria of St Moritz. The physicians have prescribed mineral waters from the spa and a milk diet for Clara (often used upon consumptives). I was sceptical at first. Feared I had made a foul decision by not continuing on our journey through Europe. But by all that is merciful in this world, Clara begins to improve. I shall say no more, for I am as yet unconvinced, though we are totally swept away by the beauty and effervescence of the mountains. I will write again after a test is completed. I pray you remain well and not overburdened with work.

  From your ever-grateful friend, Lucas Benjamin. (Who at this very moment is watching his wife as she rests contentedly on her chaise longue on the balcony in the winter sunshine.)’

  Ettie read the letter again. And again. Clara was improving! Yet Lucas dare not say more until after this ‘test’. Ettie knew that she must pray even harder for Clara.

  She gazed up at the portrait. ‘I hope you are proud of your son and daughter-in-law, Rose.’

  There was no answer of course, but Ettie was content. She would write a reply this evening, telling Lucas of her own successes. The salon was in profit. The customers had not been poached by the well-to-do stores of the West End. Every account was paid.

  The rest of the day passed busily. Ettie had prepared tobacco jars decorated with red ribbons. Cigars and cheroots bore sprigs of holly. A selection of snuff miniatures, each with discreet labelling for the discerning male, were placed invitingly on the small table in the smoking room.

  That evening was spent with her nose almost touching the salon notepaper. She had so much to tell Lucas. As she dipped her nib pen into the inkwell, she recalled the smeared, wooden desks of the orphanage. How the children who could not read or write would fashion their own markings. She remembered the many hours she had spent with Michael teaching him to read and write. Had he put any of his learning to use?

  Ettie returned her thoughts to composing her letter. She poured out her news; the favourable results of the salon, no debts to record, modest profits. How delighted she was to hear of Clara’s improvement. Lastly, she wished her dear employer and his wife a happy and holy holiday.

  It was finally Christmas Eve and very cold. Ettie listened to the conversation in the smoking room. The holiday had not come too soon, it seemed, even for the wealthy gentlemen. 1895, so she learned, had been a year of mixed fortunes.

  The politicians among the smokers breathed a loud sigh of relief. ‘Good grief, what would the country have come to with Rosebery at the helm?’ one elderly smoker muttered.

  ‘Rosebery talked himself out of the job,’ agreed another. ‘After the vote of no confidence, there was nowhere
to hide.’

  Ettie listened carefully to the opinions on the General Election held back in the summer. The Liberals had been pronounced a failure. The Conservatives, led by Lord Salisbury, had won the day.

  ‘Damn fine majority,’ agreed a pipe smoker. ‘But down to the Unionists.’

  ‘What’s your take on the Panhard four-wheeler?’ a young motorist enquired who had boasted he’d successfully truanted from his office.

  ‘Top notch, old boy but a bit rich for the wallet.’

  ‘A Daimler for me!’ A cigar smoker added.

  ‘Carl Benz has completed the “Victoria”,’ mooted an older man as he filled his tumbler.

  ‘I’d strike for the Lancaster,’ overruled another.

  ‘Pour me a dram,’ requested a new arrival.

  One after another, her gentlemen came and went, enjoying the final hours of freedom from their families. ‘Gave those Yankees a run for their money,’ jested a keen golfer. ‘Rawlins left ‘em standing at the Open.’

  ‘Damn the golf,’ cursed a military man. ‘Sending our lads out to Ashanti - bah!’

  ‘Where’s Ashanti?’

  ‘Africa, old chap. West a fraction.’

  ‘Too old for that lark now. Did my bit in the Transvaal.’

  ‘Really? Have a snifter.’

  And so the day passed, with Ettie amused by the stories she heard as she worked. Her customers regarded her as they might a maid or servant in their own homes, to which – after enjoying the tobaccos and decanters – they now seemed reluctant to return to.

  When the day was over, Ettie swept the ash-laden floors and cleared the overflowing glass bowls. She rinsed the tumblers, shined the glass and returned the button-back chairs to their former polished glory.

  Finally, she sat on the stool and gazed out on the darkened street. She had extinguished the lamps and sat by a single candle. Peace settled around her like a soft, comfort blanket.

  The till brimmed coppers, silver and notes. Orders were taken for January. The accounts were complete. Terence had cooked her a ham and egg pie for Christmas.

  Ettie sighed with pleasure. In just a few hours she would attend Midnight Mass to thank God for all he had given her. But most of all she would pray for Clara and Lucas. For the orphanage and the children. And for Michael.

  Chapter 22

  Christmas Day arrived clear and bright. Ettie woke to an unusual silence. She missed the rowdy voices and cries of Soho’s unconventional residents. It appeared that even the drunks and the desperadoes of Silver Street observed 25th December.

  After washing and dressing rapidly – since the cold was turning her fingers blue – she peered out of the window to the furrows of browned snow on the cobbles beneath. She shivered, disappointed to discover not one soul in sight.

  Downstairs was equally silent, until she coaxed a fire in the drawing room, adding a few paper twists and a shovelful of coals. The crackling and spitting gave a little energy and she sat by it as she ate her breakfast. Last night at Mass she had listened to the carols and remembered the orphans. How they loved Christmas; the thin slices of fruit cake and tiny parcels wrapped in paper, chalks or pencils for the boys, and ribbons for the girls. What would the farmer give them? Ettie felt very guilty as she toasted her bread on a long fork over the fire and drank hot tea from a mug as the tiny scarlet flames danced between the coals.

  Today would be a very long day with no customers to serve. What could she do to fill the hours? Perhaps take a walk out? But as morning turned into afternoon, she was still sitting by the fire; a fire that had extinguished to grey ashes. Why can’t I think of something to do? She wondered. A little voice in her head replied simply, ‘because it’s your birthday’.

  Ettie’s lashes moistened. She was now fifteen years of age, and nothing could change that.

  Slowly she rose to her feet, returned the dirty dishes to the kitchen, then washed and dried them. She then set about cleaning, dusting and polishing rooms that already were spotless. Work was her only solace. When she could find nothing more to do, she unlocked the door to the salon. It was here she felt most useful, with Rose and the echo of her customers’ conversations.

  She swept the floor, dusted the shelves and rearranged the velvet blue cloths. Opening a pack of freshly arrived tobaccos, she arranged a selection of Lucas’s most expensive cigars. Now all that was left was to store the week’s takings in the cast iron chest.

  Yet Ettie was reluctant to end the day and return to the silent house. There was no one there to share her birthday, as she had done each year with the orphans. How she wished to be back again with the Sisters of Clemency! She wanted to hug Kathy Squires close and tell the twins Meg and Amy a bedtime story. She yearned for the companionship and the laughter that Michael had brought into her life.

  Tears stung on her eyelids. Like tiny, poisoned darts of self-pity they reminded her it was Christmas and she was alone.

  Her sad eyes met Rose’s. How Lucas’s mother must have suffered, she thought resolutely. A beloved husband’s early and unexpected death. A young son to raise. The business to run. Rose’s loneliness would have been even more desperate than her own.

  ‘I’m young still,’ Ettie encouraged herself. ‘And have my good health. Why should I be unhappy?’

  As if in response, a sudden noise made her jump. It came from the salon window. ‘Tap, tap,’ the noise went. Ettie listened again.

  ‘Tap tap.’

  Darkness had descended now. The salon didn’t feel quite so friendly. Ettie crept to the door. The blinds were closed. Should she draw them and take a look?

  Another ‘tap, tap’. This time louder. Then a cry of impatience.

  ‘Ettie O’Reilly, where are you?’

  At once she recognized the voice. Drawing the lock, Ettie was almost bowled over as Gwen and Lily rushed in. A freezing draught followed as they drowned her in hugs and kisses and the faint, unmissable scent of aniseed.

  ‘Joyeux Noël,’ cried Lily. ‘Terence told us you are alone.’

  ‘In this dark and gloomy place,’ Gwen said as the two girls made their way in, squinting into the flickering shadows.

  Ettie closed the salon door, startled but happy to see her two friends. ‘Mr and Mrs Benjamin are holidaying in Europe.’

  ‘Fine for some,’ snorted Lily. ‘But for you, Ettie, have you not a minute to spare for your friends?’

  Ettie blushed, knowing she should have found time to visit Gwen and Lily.

  ‘No excuses, little beauty,’ laughed Gwen, throwing off her coat and bundling it into Ettie’s arms. ‘We are here and that’s all that matters. See, we’ve brought supper with us.’

  Lily placed a wooden basket on the cabinet. ‘Cold meats, pickles, plums baked in syrup, tarts and biscuits. And of course, a little green fairy.’

  Without further ado, the two girls linked their arms through Ettie’s. ‘Show us the way to a nice fire, won’t you?’

  A little uncertainly Ettie led them down the passage to the drawing room. She would never have taken such a liberty if Lucas and Clara were here. But since they weren’t and Gwen and Lily were being so generous and kind as to call on her, Ettie felt obliged to respond.

  ‘This is a very nice room,’ Gwen said, looking round. ‘But so cold! Where is the fire?’

  ‘I lit one,’ Ettie apologized, ‘but it went out.’

  ‘Let’s make another.’

  ‘There isn’t much coal …’

  ‘We’ll burn something else then,’ Lily said, untroubled. ‘Have you any wood?’

  Ettie shook her head, then remembered the broken crates that were to be returned to the Tobacco Dock company. She led the way through the kitchen, a room which drew cries of approval from her friends.

  By the light of an oil lantern, they searched the yard. Soon there was laughter and giggling as Gwen and Lily made short work of the crates. Ettie laughed too as they lifted their skirts, kicked and showed off their bloomers, as the scent of aniseed curled in the air.
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  With arms full of broken pieces, they returned to the house. Gathered by the drawing room hearth, they piled the wood in the grate. Taking a newspaper package from the wooden basket, Gwen unwrapped a green bottle.

  ‘Say bonsoir to the fairy, Ettie!’ She waved the bottle in the air. ‘It’s your birthday after all.’

  Ettie gasped. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You told me when we met,’ Gwen chuckled. ‘Remember?’

  Ettie thought back to that first day when she had gone to the market. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘I have a good memory. Now find us some tumblers – à votre santé.’

  Ettie went to the kitchen. She felt a curl of happiness inside her. Gwen had remembered her birthday after all this time. Together with the lit candle, she placed three glass tumblers and Terence’s egg and ham pie on a tray. Slicing the pie thinly, she added a half loaf of bread and the very last thimbleful of butter.

  When she returned, Gwen and Lily were making balls of the newspaper. They pushed them into the wood and Lily lowered the candle’s flame. Wax dropped in melting pearls on the grate. The taper sent scarlet flames leaping upward. Heat flooded the room.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez boire?’ teased Lily into Ettie’s ear.

  Ettie tried to remember her French. ’Non, merci, Lily,’ she refused politely.

  ‘Just one sip,’ persuaded Gwen, putting her arm around Ettie’s shoulders.

  Ettie began to smile at the funny faces her friends were making. She didn’t see what harm could come of taking one small sip. After all, this was her birthday.

  The aniseed rolled over her tongue like cream. It soared into her belly like fire. It brought back the happy memories of Gwen’s house and the afternoon she had spent there.

  ‘You see, that wasn’t so bad,’ urged Gwen.