A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 8
He cut his gaze to the two ladies beside him, marveling at their calm appearances—a feat few men achieved. Saffron Hill was a hazardous labyrinth where drunkards dawdled, threw rocks at gas streetlights, and spewed insults at anyone in their path. Their only prey were constables or sharp-eyed gutter rats.
“You are quite brave, sir,” Kitty said. She examined the sign hanging off a wrought-iron pole bearing the school’s name. “To venture into a poverty-stricken area with no care to your own safety, and in support of such a monumental cause as this, is quite remarkable.”
He wasn’t the one who deserved credit. Field Lane, the southern-most tip of Saffron Hill, was more dangerous to her than him, which was another reason why she didn’t belong here. “It is nothing.”
She scoffed, her wide-eyed stare piercing through him. “Hardly!”
“You are here.” He stated the obvious. “You and Miss Castleton, of course,” he said, tilting his head to her friend, “are courageous.” He grinned sympathetically. “I am just doing my moral duty. The credit goes to the Earl of Shaftesbury, Christian missionaries, chapels, philanthropists, and the London City Mission. Without their investments, the number of Ragged Schools in the city wouldn’t have increased from five to twenty in the last five years. We’ve also seen an increase in New Testaments, reading books, and hymnals.”
“You underestimate yourself, Mr. Fernsby.” Kitty’s praise moved him, but that was as far as he’d allow her words to go. Anything else was pure folly.
“I am only one of many determined individuals seeking to help those who cannot help themselves.” In his case, he had good reason: at one time, he had been in their place.
“Ha!” Egerton exclaimed as he flipped his cane. “Bartholomew Fernsby is more than he appears, Kitty. I have been telling you that for years.”
“Humility”—Kitty smiled at her brother with sisterly affection—“goes a long way, Ambrose. You should be so inspired.”
“Pish,” her brother complained. “Why should I be modest?”
Kitty closed her eyes and exhaled. “If you have to ask—”
“Shall we go in?” Miss Castleton closed the distance, placed her hand on Egerton’s arm, and diverted his attention. “Will you escort me inside?” At his congenial nod, she added, “My father has asked me in earnest to study your investments in Ragged Schools, Mr. Fernsby, in the hopes that we can offer as much, if not more, to Nugent House in Berkhamstead.”
“I would be honored.” That was exactly what Bart and Egerton were wishing for, with the Earl of Bridgewater’s help.
Egerton fastened his gaze on Miss Castleton. “Your father would be wise to contact Locke, Moulton, Morrison, and Starey. They meet at Gray’s Inn Road and are in the throes of forming a union similar to . . .”
Their voices began to fade as they crossed the threshold and disappeared into the school, leaving Bart and Kitty outside, alone.
“After you.” He bowed, eager to get her out of the street and away from the prying eyes of loafers, ladies carrying bundles on their backs, and inebriated men curious about their elaborate coach. The longer they delayed, the longer a fine lady would be forced to endure the sickening atmosphere of physical waste. Gently, and with the greatest of ease, he motioned for her to precede him, then inhaled her floral scent as she passed by. “On Sundays,” he said, “fifteen children attend classes here. In the afternoons and evenings, we see about sixty safely within these walls.”
Kitty stopped at the top of the staircase that led to the schoolrooms below. Her expression fell. “So many?” she asked frowning.
“Given the population, I’m inclined to ask, ‘Why so few?’” He observed her closely. Her ghostlike pallor suggested she was just as affected by the misery around them as he was, even though she wouldn’t admit it. Unlike her, however, he’d been anesthetized to privation. “I’m afraid things are not much changed since Mr. Dickens visited Field Lane in September.”
Douglas Murray, one of Field Lane’s missionaries climbed the stairs to greet him and offered his assistance. Bart handed Murray the stack of books in his arms, cautioning the man to take care on the stairs.
“Mr. Dickens was here?” Kitty’s breathless reply washed over him. “I wonder—”
“What?” he asked, directing his attention back to her.
“Did his visit influence A Christmas Carol?”
“I believe it did,” he said, recalling Dickens’s visit. “He intended to write a pamphlet on the subject but decided that a book would have greater impact.”
She sighed and clasped the book tighter to her. “I wonder why my brother never mentioned this.”
“Perhaps he intended to amuse you with that information after you read the book.”
“Mayhap.” She gazed about the school, making him wonder what she thought of the creaky, steep staircase that led to the ground floor, and the plaster flaking off the walls.
Change took time. “Plans have been made to improve the building, providing substantial funding is secured, of course. London’s population is growing at a swift pace, and investors are in short supply. But Dickens has pledged his support, and he excels in speeches, which will increase public awareness.”
“I understand,” Kitty said sadly, exhibiting a strength that only enhanced her femininity. “He plans to use A Christmas Carol to win over people’s hearts and increase charitable donations.”
“Yes.” While Bart enjoyed her enthusiasm, he admired her intelligence more. “That’s why he’s devoted a great deal of time to speechmaking; he gave one at the Manchester Athenaeum in October.” He wasn’t going to add that Dickens was also motivated by money. His family was growing, and touring America had nearly bankrupted him after his last two books failed to impress the American public. “He is a prolific writer with a devoted following.” The lantern light reflected in her eyes like sparkling stars, pulling him into her realm. “I have no doubt his book will win over people’s hearts, as you say.”
She nodded. “I do not need to read it to know he’s already won mine.”
Had he? “I’ve learned the hard way not to cast my bets too soon.” Angry voices cluttered his head as memories of the moment his drunken father had revealed he’d lost their fortune on a lame horse assaulted him. “It is safer abiding in darkness than risking the very thing one fears.”
Like loving and losing again.
She blinked, the featherlight dance of her lashes mesmerizing to behold, “Then we must shine a light so bright that it can never be extinguished.”
He frowned. “That will take a miracle.”
But Bart was, as Hobbes put it, “a wise and cautious man.” And for such men, miracles were incomprehensible phenomena that cannot be easily done.
Chapter Six
“This is the nineteenth century,” Kitty said. “Miracles happen every day.”
A hot ache grew in her chest. What if Bart was right? If Field Lane Ragged School was an example of what the other schools in London were like, it would be astonishing if the buildings survived long enough to provide education to anyone.
His footsteps kept time with hers as they made their way down the staircase, the sound strangely comforting as his hand grazed the banister behind hers. The cadence, his nearness, was hypnotizing.
Nervously, she said the first thing that came to mind. “I do believe Mr. Dickens depicted Saffron Hill as Fagin’s den, the Three Cripples, a lodging house supposedly next door to the One Tun.” Her gaze wandered over the aging beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. “Places depicted as altogether dark and dangerous, where thieves and vagabonds prowled rampantly.”
“You’ve read Oliver Twist?” he asked as if he found it incredulous.
She beamed with pride. “Mr. Dickens’s writing comes from a genuine place. I find his stories intriguing.” Her literary tastes included righteous causes and politics. “Do you find my interest unusual?”
“Quite the contrary,” he said. “The poor are, as Dickens so eloquently put it, bees in a vast hive. They flock to the city for employment, only to discover a tidal wave has swept away their dreams. Unless they are given more than hopeless means and whispers of courage, we will not be able to keep the wolf of hunger from anyone’s door.”
“You know Oliver Twist, too.” She failed to hide her bewilderment. Bart continued to be one of the most fascinating men she’d ever met. While Papa and Ambrose understood how passionate she was about restoring dignity to the poor, no other man had until Ambrose’s friend. “Mr. Dickens speaks with polish and recurring intensity.”
“Yes,” Bart agreed. “He’s masterful at motivating the masses.”
She considered his handsome profile. The strong brow line that slanted to a slightly notched nose. His jaw was sternly set, his shoulders back. His physical bearing was solid, his inquisitive eyes playful as they followed her every move.
“You confuse me greatly, Mr. Fernsby. You are able to straddle Society’s standards, and rouse to action rather than waiting for permission to act.” She labored over how much more of herself to reveal. “Like you, I long to fend off the tide of human suffering that has gripped our world, though I have yet to find a way to do so.”
A stair creaked underfoot as the wooden plank shifted. Her knees nearly buckled out from under her. “Oh!”
“Lady Catherine!” Bart quickly gripped her elbow, drawing her in to steady her. For a moment, she relaxed into him, seeking his heat. A passionate fluttering rose in her neck. Dizzying sensations rushed to her head. “Are you unwell?”
“On the contrary, I am quite well.” She nodded weakly, then discovered that she and Bart had become the center of Ambrose’s and Meg’s attention. They were staring. She quickly separated from him. “Ah, there is my brother. I should join him.”
“Please”—he gently guided her down the stairs—“watch your step.”
“Of course.” She placed her hand over his, relishing his touch and the closeness of their bodies. “Thank you for your assistance.”
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Kitty quickly put as much distance between them as she could. She studied the large room. It was a degraded space devoted to both boys and girls seeking refuge. About thirty adults and youngsters huddled together on benches, watching every move the outsiders made. Their condition brought tears to Kitty’s eyes, clothed wretchedly as they were. Filth stained their rags.
Candlelight flared against the blemished walls. The air around them grew foul, stifling. She shivered and wrapped her arms about her.
“I must offer apologies for the state of the building,” Bart said. “As I mentioned earlier, plans have been made to improve the interior.” He passed by her, his sandalwood scent a boon to her lungs. He knelt down to the children’s level and smiled a boyish smile. “Do not be afraid, my little friends. These kind folk are here to help you.”
“Is it true?” A small dirty face tilted upward, and the child’s distrustful eyes locked on Kitty. At the sound of the child’s wavering voice, her heart lurched with painful clarity. The child was so young and thin that she couldn’t tell if the urchin was a boy or girl.
She stepped forward and knelt beside Bart. “We’ve come to wish you a Happy Christmas, little one.”
Dickens’s story about Oliver Twist came back to mind. Were these children destined to serve a man like Fagin? Would they become artful dodgers, match flints, thieves, and beggars in order to survive? She gazed into their vacant stares, her heart sinking into her belly.
Then she had an idea. “Do you enjoy music?” she asked. She loved to sing and play the pianoforte, and above all else, she wanted to give them a moment of joy they could cling to when times were hard. “I would like to sing for you.”
The children began talking all at once, excitement filling the dark space. She glanced up at her brother, then Meg. Both smiled sadly back at her. Kitty knew a Christmas song wouldn’t be enough to ease these children’s woes, but it was within her power to ease their situation, at least for the night. With a heavy heart, she glanced at Bart. Given his opinion on Christmas, would he approve? “Do you suppose—”
“We have hymnals,” Bart cut in, again seeming to read her mind. He put a hand on one knee. “They’ve been donated by missionaries who insist on involving the children in spiritual pursuits. You are free to use them.”
She nibbled on her lip a moment. “They are children, and it’s almost Christmas.” Girding herself with resolve, her heartstrings tightened. “I should like to lead them in a Christmas song.”
“What?” he asked befuddled.
“The celebration is almost upon us. Surely you will not deny them a taste of holiday spirit?”
“Deny them?” He removed his hat, then scratched his head. “My lady, these poor tykes have been denied the basics of life all their lives.”
“Yes.” She composed herself, forming her words carefully so that he might understand what she meant. “And that is why I would like to sing Christmas music instead.” He stared at her blankly. “It is the right thing to do, is it not? Spreading the joy of our Lord’s birth?”
“Humbug,” he muttered.
She sighed. What had jaded him so? He’d claimed to have once been a religious man, and his work with the missionaries, as well as groups like Bands of Hope, indicated an attachment. His recommendation to use the hymnals was another example. Obviously, he was an empathetic man. His endeavors to improve the lives of children in the Ragged Schools was proof enough. But the added layers of complexity to his character startled her.
“Come now, Bart,” Ambrose intervened. “Even you must admit this is what the children need. By the by, I can vouch for my sister. She’s a good singer.”
Meg rushed to Kitty’s side. “Indeed, she is. Her voice is like that of an angel. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear Kitty sing for the children.” She addressed the adults and children gathered there. “You would like to hear a Christmas song, wouldn’t you?”
While Kitty appreciated Meg’s support, her awareness of Bart was more intimate than ever. His shoulder twitched. A tic developed in his jaw.
The children were looking at her with anticipation, and a sudden thrill touched her spine. “I would be happy to sing for you,” she said. Bart was a grown man; surely, he could handle a Christmas song or two.
The youngsters grew restless. “Sing,” they cried.
God only knew what few joys the poor dears had in life. No doubt they longed for something new and exhilarating. Whatever the case, Kitty intended to do what she could to ease their misfortunes. And music was the surest way to anyone’s heart.
“Why don’t we all sing together?” she asked.
“What if we don’t know the words?” spat a raggedly clothed boy of about ten.
Kitty sighed, smiling. “Just follow along, then repeat the chorus. It’s that easy, I assure you.” Meg and Ambrose gathered the children in a semicircle. “Now close your eyes,” she said. “Imagine that it is a cold Christmas Eve.”
“With snow?” a timid-looking child asked.
She nodded. “Yes, with snow.”
The child’s eyes grew wide. “We ’ardly ever seen snow.”
“Pretend, if you will,” she said, “that carolers have come to glorify the birth of the baby Jesus.”
“The night before Christmas?” one of them asked dumbfounded.
“Just so.” She locked gazes with Bart. “Join us, Mr. Fernsby. I am sure the children would enjoy hearing your voice, as well.” His expression altered, though whether in pain or anger she couldn’t quite tell. The lighting wasn’t exactly brilliant nearby. She turned back to her audience. “You do want to hear Mr. Fernsby sing, don’t you, children?”
Their uplifted voices proved he was indeed valued and welcome so there was no reason for him to refuse. Nevertheless, he did.
“I am not at liberty to sing.” He removed his watch, flipped it open, and gazed at its face.
Did he have somewhere else to be? She walked toward him. “Kind sir, please do not begrudge the children their happy Christmas by refusing to join us. Whatever has altered your—”
“I do not sing, Lady Catherine,” he interrupted gruffly. Candlelight flickered behind his head, casting his face in shadow. “I can’t carry a tune. That is all. I do not seek to offend.”
Her brow furrowed. “Can you hum?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say that I can.”
“Very well.” She clasped her hands together as her confusion mounted. Certainly, anyone can hum if they knew a tune. Since he didn’t celebrate Christmas, perhaps he didn’t know any Christmas songs. But it was strange, nonetheless, that he couldn’t muster anything for the children. “What a shame. I would have enjoyed singing with you.”
He grumbled something that sounded like another humbug under his breath and withdrew to the back of the room. “As you wish.”
The children, wide-eyed and eager to be entertained, clapped their hands with expectation. She observed them, her heart swelling. “Where I come from,” she said, “we have a tradition of going out to collect evergreens on Christmas Eve.”
“What fer?” a tiny little voice asked.
“To decorate our homes. It’s an ancient tradition. Holly reminds us of the thorns that encircled Christ’s head. Ivy is strong, and reminds us to cling to God,” she happily explained. “Plants that never lose their leaves are examples of our Lord’s everlasting love. Besides, balsam smells glorious.”
One of the boys raised his hand. “We don’t ’ave a ’ome, miss.”
“I know.” Her heart clenched. Poverty had a name: hopelessness.
“We ’ardly ever see trees,” another child admitted.
“Then maybe this will help. I know a song called ‘The Holly and the Ivy.’”
A toothless girl shouted. “Will ye sing it fer us?”
