A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 4
Bart grimaced and worked his jaw, growing more restless by the moment. “Right you are, Egerton.” He dreaded the moment Kitty and Miss Castleton visited Field Lane Ragged School. Conditions had improved over the past year, but it wasn’t the place for a lady of any social standing. He averted his gaze, then gritted his teeth, rolling his shoulders to relieve some tension. “I confess you have a busy itinerary before you. Forgive me for saying so, but I hope you are not put off by how slow things happen in poorer sections of the city compared to Mayfair. It hasn’t been easy petitioning for change. But change takes time innocent children do not have.”
“Before we get into a debate about Field Lane and the formation of unions . . .” Egerton rubbed his hands together, then clamped them in his lap, leaving them hanging on his train of thought. “There are several things to remember. Firstly, Hertfordshire has a union.”
“Yes, but London does not,” Bart said, “and London’s population far exceeds that of Hertfordshire.” Facts did not lie. “We must persevere for the thousands of children forced to live filthy, hopeless lives on the streets.”
Children like me and Charles Dickens.
The carriage turned onto Piccadilly.
Kitty shushed Meg, who chattered on and on about shopping at the Burlington Arcade. “I am aware of the situation,” Kitty said. “No matter how upsetting the East End might be, nothing you say will deter me from my purpose.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Egerton said. “The day is young, and we have plenty of time to discuss the situation at Field Lane.”
Nothing could be decided about Field Lane Ragged School in one day.
The carriage stopped before Hatchard’s green facade and large-sashed, plate glass windows. “Oh look, Ambrose!” The excitement in Kitty’s voice sent a shot of exasperation to his heart. She pointed at the copy of A Christmas Carol. “There it is!”
As it has been for the past several days . . .
It was a story filled with every trapping and heart-pounding desire of the season. Christmas had come again.
“Bah humbug,” he muttered.
“Did you say something?” Kitty asked.
“Nothing of importance,” he said. What more could he say? He certainly couldn’t tell her how Christmas had stolen everything from him, every hope, dream, and joy he’d ever had. This time of year, his days were filled with a wretchedness of spirit he couldn’t shake. He would work late into the night so that when he finally laid his head on his pillow he’d meet oblivion as quickly as possible. He wasn’t completely heartless, of course. He begrudged no one their boughs of holly or feasts of fowl.
“Try not to appear the curmudgeon, old chap,” Egerton whispered.
He nodded and cleared his throat, grateful to his friend for keeping him in line. Egerton knew his background and was sworn to secrecy. His friendship was assurance that there would always be someone in Bart’s corner.
Apparently little went unnoticed by Lady Catherine Egerton, however. “I assume, by your lack of excitement over Dickens’s latest book, you are not a fan of his work.”
“On the contrary, I admire him a great deal,” he said.
“Perhaps he is not a religious man,” Miss Castleton said.
“I once was,” he answered honestly. But weren’t they aware that the world didn’t revolve around spiritual pursuits? It was a hard-earned lesson he’d gleaned eighteen years ago at age ten. His life had turned upside down that year, and nothing and no one could alter his opinion, not even Charles Dickens. Nor could time erase memories of currants, spices, citrus, and evergreen from a boy’s memories. All had been stolen from him the night before Christmas when he watched his parents die in the Marshalsea prison, leaving him a desolate shell deprived of company and affections of the heart. No. The joys of Christmas held no sway over him now, even with its good tidings and fervor. “But those days are gone.”
“You object to . . . Christmas?” Miss Castleton stared at him, baffled. “But Christmas is the celebration of the birth of our Lord.”
His nerves tensed. “Yes. It is.”
“How sad that you do not enjoy Christmas,” Kitty said, her eyes misting. “It pains me to think of living a life without hope.”
Bart winced. “I once had hopes and dreams like any other man.”
“Kitty, why don’t you take a closer look?” Egerton suggested, once more coming to his rescue.
The coachman opened the carriage door and folded down the steps. Bart took his friend’s cue and exited the carriage, allowing Egerton and the coachman to assist the ladies.
He studied the window display, forbidding the rumble in his chest to reach audible heights. Dickens’s book stared back at him with its fancy leather binding, gold embossment, woodcuts and etchings, red-and-green title page, and hand-colored end papers. It was like a handsome bird perched on a treetop with resplendent feathers, superb and unreachable in the gleaning sun. And the price! At five shillings, the volume was affordable for the masses. Dickens’s doing, naturally. If only Scrooge’s story could obliterate poverty forever.
He fisted his hands wearily, cursing his forefathers. If not for his father’s disgrace and subsequent death, what might his life have been?
You would have been just as stubborn as your grandfather, a man hell-bent on clearing his name and failing, and as foolish as your father, a man goaded into gambling away a fortune.
Bart might not be a prolific writer, but at least he could relate to Dickens. They’d both suffered cruelly at their fathers’ reduced circumstances and had sought to lessen depravity in all its incarnations so other boys did not have to dig their way out of the same muck. Filled with frustration, Bart stared at A Christmas Carol. The center book was opened, its pages spread wide to entice readers with its pleasant and happy imagery—an excellent marketing strategy. Merchants depended on their products’ success, and John Hatchard had proven he was a shrewd businessman. He was a publisher in his own right and rode the acclaim of prolific writers like Dickens, who’d worked for the Morning Chronicle writing Sketches by Boz and The Pickwick Papers. A new book by Dickens was guaranteed to bring eager readers from afar.
Bart grimaced, then adjusted his hat. He wasn’t bewitched by false emotion and spectacle. He was on a philanthropic errand by coming here. He’d purchased copies of A Christmas Carol for twenty Ragged Schools in the East End. In his mind, Christmas was as fictional as Dickens’s ghostly tome, but he did believe in worthwhile causes.
His esteemed “uncle” had augmented his finances by investing in the London and Birmingham Railway, leaving Bart an exorbitant sum upon his death. He hadn’t wasted his years basking in his wealth and status. He’d put his inheritance to good use, taking on the yoke of the poor. The day he’d left the workhouse, he’d made a vow to work tirelessly to improve the lives of others, no matter the hardship to himself. He must persevere for the thousands of children forced to live filthy, hopeless lives. It was his reputation for such things that had captured the attention of the Union Guardians and Anthony Ashley-Cooper, the seventh Earl of Shaftesbury.
As Bart looked at the display, the books seemed to fade into the background, his eyes focusing on his reflection in the windowpane. Scars, lines on his face, and a healthier lifestyle had altered his appearance. Thanks to Uncle Matthias’s generosity, he was a well-propertied man now, too, not the abandoned urchin miraculously rescued from the workhouse.
The ladies approached the window. He cut his gaze to the glass double doors, anxious to get his business underway as Kitty joined him.
“I wonder how many hours it took to create the book’s hand-colored etching,” she said.
“According to Dickens—”
“You know Charles Dickens?” She spun to face him, her capelet fanning about her in a glorious show. Filled with obvious surprise, she clasped his forearm, sending rivulets of sensation barreling through him.
“I do. Didn’t your brother tell you?”
“He did not.” She bit her lip in frustration, making it grow deliciously plump, tempting. “Come to think of it, Ambrose has never mentioned the two of you in the same sentence. But that is just like him, I suppose.”
He steeled himself and gave her his full attention.
“Has Mr. Dickens spoken to you of his book?”
“In what way?” He wasn’t going to admit that his aversion for Christmas and his penchant for saying “bah humbug” had inspired the character of Mr. Scrooge. Self-respect was a man’s greatest armor, after all. “Is there anything particular you would like to know?”
“Where did Mr. Dickens find inspiration for Ebenezer Scrooge and his ghosts of Christmas?”
Bart gulped. He surely was not going to describe himself, so instead, he tried to view Dickens and the book through Kitty’s eyes. “That is for Dickens to say.”
“Do tell. And what a playful image,” she said, pointing to the book’s opening pages. “The illustrator has included every nuance of Christmas. There’s a fiddler plucking a tune while merry-makers dance around him, and everyone is surrounded by holly and ivy and food aplenty.” She sighed. “He has truly captured the season’s joy. I wonder how long it took him to do it.”
The imagery coaxed out the ravenous child who’d been denied such delights. Bart shoved the vagrant back to the depths of his memories. “I believe the illustrator is John Leech.” A brilliant artist, Leech was a contributor to Punch, a humorous middle-class magazine. “If I remember correctly, Dickens said the man began working on the plates in late October.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, how feverishly he must have worked!”
He glanced down at Kitty’s upturned face, his gaze lingering on her plump lips. “I believe that is his normal way of doing things.”
Egerton broke in, a timely interruption, Miss Castleton on his arm. “Shall we?”
“Of course.” Bart flexed his hand, itching to extend his arm to Kitty, but instead, he gestured for her to precede him. “I am sure you are eager to go inside.”
“Yes.” She smiled sweetly as she brushed past him.
Bells rang as the front door opened, announcing their admittance to Number 187. A shadow danced across the floor in the gas-lit shop as several people descended the large curving staircase, and leather-bound books filled floor-to-ceiling bookcases in oak frames, a collective consciousness by the greatest, adventurous, and studied minds of the age. Bart moved into the store and quickly got his bearings, an old habit he’d picked up on the East End where preparation meant the difference between life and death.
Fashionable gentlemen strutted about the interior, perusing tales of lives lived, lore and legend, secrets and lies. Several others clustered together in heady conversation. Bart took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of leather and beeswax-polished dark wood. He’d always been drawn to Hatchard’s, where an endless supply of rare and out-of-print books, written and illustrated by the brightest scholars in history, enveloped one’s consciousness. Thanks to his uncle, Bart made it his life’s work to continue the education he’d been provided.
“Good day to you, sir,” Thomas Hatchard, the owner’s son, greeted him. At forty-nine years of age, the younger Hatchard had adopted his father’s signature look: a black bishop’s frock coat, plain waistcoat, cravat, knee breeches, and gaiters. Like his father, he was an earnest man who had a sensitive touch with those in the market for a book or simply perusing the shelves. “Excellent weather today.”
“Good day,” Bart said, giving a quick bow of his head. Then under his breath, he muttered, “Balmy winter.”
Hatchard ignored Bart’s commentary and returned the polite bow. “Can I offer you any assistance, sir?”
“Indeed.” Bart nodded as Egerton, Kitty, and Miss Castleton meandered around the front of the shop. “I have come to pick up an order. The name’s Fernsby.”
“Very good, Mr. Fernsby.” Hatchard moved behind the enormous, polished oak counter. Bart’s gaze strayed to Kitty. Lithe, tall, and quick to smile, she was a fascinating creature, now at an even greater advantage as she passed by to look at several cards on the counter. For a woman of delicate appearance she had a great deal of confidence. And she was completely unattainable.
“Sir? Are you unwell?”
Sir. The word ricocheted in his chest. He was a baronet, though he’d kept that information from going public. “What?” he asked, then quickly answered, “Yes. I mean, no. Is there a problem with my order?”
“No.” A momentary silence enveloped them. “I need to verify the sum, but you didn’t respond to my confirmation. Your order included twenty books for the Ragged Schools, correct?”
“Yes.” What a bloody bit of bad luck—caught ogling Kitty as if he’d come right off the streets. Humiliation filled him. It wasn’t like him to lose control. He’d spent the better part of his youth correcting that specific emotional flaw.
Be calm and articulate at all times, his uncle constantly had reminded him.
He nodded to Hatchard. The directors of the Ragged Schools did not trust children with books, and therefore, only one per school was needed. “Twenty is correct,” he said.
It was a paltry number, however, with no hope of adequately reaching the hundreds upon hundreds of dispirited waifs under the Earl of Shaftesbury’s patronage. Shaftesbury fought to organize a philanthropic alliance for London’s labyrinth of neglected poor, an effort made far more difficult by opposition in Parliament.
“Brilliant.” Hatchard tilted his head. “Allow me a few moments to gather your order.” He snapped his fingers. “Alfred!”
Alfred Taylor, a balding man with a clear mind and one of Hatchard’s prominent assistants, pushed aside the curtain behind the counter and quickly answered Hatchard’s summons. “Yes, sir? May I be of service?”
Hatchard nodded. “Mr. Fernsby is here for his order. Could you fetch it for him please?”
“Yes, sir,” Hatchard’s assistant said again, then walked away to fetch Bart’s order.
“Take your time, Alfred,” Bart told the aging man. Hatchard’s had a collection of first editions and rare and unique books on shelves close to the tills that he liked to browse, but today, the length of his stay depended on friends. “I happen to be here with several acquaintances so there will be plenty of time to do just that.”
“As you wish, sir.” The assistant disappeared behind the curtain, mumbling something Bart couldn’t hear.
“Oh!” A female voice and a flash of blue to his right. He glanced over at Kitty and caught her stroking several feathered quills. “What are these?”
Blister it! He groaned. He’d never wondered what it felt like to be a feather—until now.
Chapter Three
“Ah, you are admiring our Christmas cards,” Hatchard said to her, his throat bobbing. “May be of service?” Absentmindedly, he fingered the gold watch fob dangling from his waistcoat and smiled patiently like a horologist. He carefully picked up a card and opened it for Kitty’s inspection. “Sir Henry Cole has a new venture, my lady. He’s come up with a card for loved ones and friends during the holiday. John Callcott Horsley is an excellent illustrator. Have you heard of him?” She shook her head. “Not yet? Well, this card has proven to be quite popular. It’s called a Christmas card.”
“A Christmas card.” The words glided over her tongue as she read the advertisement stationed above the card. “Just published, a Christmas Congratulations Card; or picture emblematical of old English festivity to perpetuate kind recollections between dear friends!”
Oh, what pure joy! She must share her discovery with Meg and Ambrose. She glanced around the front of the bookstore, but the two were nowhere to be found, which was just as well, she supposed. If her attempts to entice her brother to notice Meg after all these years were a success, she’d be the happiest of sisters.
That only left one person with whom to share her elation. Her gaze strayed to Bart, the one person who could somehow upend her life with a single look or remark. He might not like Christmas—though she had no idea why the holiday affected him so—but there was no one else to marvel at the card with her.
“Can you believe it?” she asked, throwing caution to the wind. She held out the card to him. “Indoor trees decorated in all manner of celebration, and now this? A Christmas card! Did you ever think you’d see such a sight?”
He shrugged. “Nothing astonishes me.”
She grimaced. What kind of life did this man lead? A life without surprises seemed rather dull. Still, Ambrose only ever had good things to say about Bart.
“Railway investitures where speculation is rampant have trained me to expect the unexpected,” he explained.
That, she understood. Berkhamstead’s railway had taught her a great deal about speculation herself. She waited for him to go on.
“From what I can see,” he said, pointing to the card, “Sir Henry’s objective is sound. Pinpoint a need. Create a product. Outsource it. And then, if all goes as planned, double your initial investment. In that respect, this card can be viewed no differently from the creation of the water pump, steam engine, or gas lamp.”
“How dry you make it all sound.” She crinkled her nose, thinking. “So, if I understand you correctly, Christmas serves one singular purpose.”
His brow rose incredulously. “And what would that be, Lady Catherine?”
“Queen Victoria’s fascination with Christmas,” Mr. Hatchard said, cutting her off before she could respond, “has rapidly increased interest in the seasonal holiday. Sir Henry is on to something, mark my words. We’ve sold a great deal of his cards already, and at one shilling a piece, they are a bargain. Observe Mr. Horsley’s colorful illustrations.” The bookseller unfolded the card’s three panels. “Three generations of a happy family make a toast. What could be more thrilling than to receive a card sharing good tidings such as, ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to You’ on Christmas morning?”
