A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 9
Her gaze flicked to Ambrose and Meg. They nodded, and she looked around at the children as she sang the first stanza. “The holly and the ivy / when they are both full grown. / Of all the trees that are in the wood / the holly bears the crown. / O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”
Kitty glanced at her brother and best friend again. Meg had leaned into Ambrose, who stared down at her with delight. She smiled to herself, and let her lilting vibrato sweetly provide the next stanza. “The holly bears a blossom / as white as lily flowers. / And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ / to be our sweet Savior. / O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”
Then Ambrose cut in, his baritone delivering the third stanza. “The holly bears a berry / as red as any blood. / And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ / to do poor sinners good.” He motioned with his hands for the children to join in. “O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”
Kitty, Ambrose, and Meg’s voices converged for the next stanza. “The holly bears a prickle / as sharp as any thorn. / And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ / on Christmas Day in the morn.”
“Come on, children,” Kitty encouraged. “You know the chorus now. Sing with us.”
And miracles of miracles, they did, their angelic voices swiftly altering their dismal surroundings. “O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”
A tidal wave of emotion invaded Kitty’s heart as she sang the next verse alone. “The holly bears a bark / as bitter as any gall. / And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ / for to redeem us all. / O the rising of the sun,” she sang as the children chimed in, “and the running of the deer. / The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”
Field Lane Ragged School had been transformed with a single song. The dim lighting brightened each face that met her gaze. Her heart exploding with joy, she sought out Bart, desiring to share that feeling with him.
He stood against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He held his chin low, avoiding the scene by looking at the staircase. Then, as if sensing her stare, he settled his gaze on her. In that moment, she became conscious of two things: his virility and vulnerability. His expression mirrored the children’s: one of fleeting fancy and a desire to believe in something bigger than yourself against all odds as much as it appeared to pain him.
But she hadn’t come to London to lighten a man’s burdens. She’d come to make a difference, to find a vocation that would occupy her days and give her purpose.
She glanced away, singing on. “The holly and the ivy / now both are full well grown. / Of all the trees that are in the wood / the holly bears the crown. / O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.” She held the last note longer than the composer had intended, allowing it to fill the air.
Applause filled the room, and the children cried out for more. Kitty obliged, performing several more songs for their pleasure. During her renditions, Bart angled closer, his icy reserve melting away.
She picked up the copy she’d purchased of A Christmas Carol and held it up for the children to see. “I have a gift for you,” she said. “Charles Dickens’s new book, A Christmas Carol.”
“Look, Mr. Fernsby! The nice lady brought us a book!” shouted a child she didn’t think was even old enough to read.
“A kind and brilliant gift,” Bart said, smiling fondly at Kitty.
Their gazes locked, his over the head of a child and hers as she stood there like a mindless chit. Good heavens, it was just a book, but her giddy heart made her feel as if she’d given the children the moon! Who was he, this contrary, extraordinary man? She thought him remote, incapable of affection. How wrong she’d been. How wrong, indeed.
A hand gripped her arm, breaking the spell he’d spun about her. “Will ye read it to us?”
She smiled wider than she ever had before. “I would be honored—”
“I’m afraid there won’t be time for reading,” Bart cut in, holding out his pocket watch. “Your train departs within the hour.”
“Right you are, old chap,” Ambrose said.
“So soon?” she asked.
Oh, to be able to come and go on a whim. She frowned down at the little boy. “Would you like me to come again?”
The child’s eyes lit from within. “Aye, miss. Please say ye’ll come.”
“Of course.” She glanced at Bart, who nodded his approval without hesitation. She smiled at the boy. “I will. I promise.”
“Right you are.” Ambrose tapped his cane on the wooden floorboards. “Kitty, would you like to do the honors or shall I?”
The time to pass out their gifts had arrived. “No,” she said gazing upon her brother fondly. “We shall do this together.” She rubbed the boy’s head full of hair and guided him back to the group. “Come closer. Closer, children.” They quieted, and their expectant faces turned to her. “Mr. Fernsby has informed me that our time is at an end.” Tears came to Kitty’s eyes, and an ache knotted in her belly. “But do not be dismayed. We have surprises for you. You do like surprises, don’t you, children?”
This elicited a loud reply from a cacophony of voices. “Aye!”
Ambrose and Bart strode off to get the two bushels of oranges they had brought and carried them to where Kitty, Meg, and the others were gathered. The tangy citrus scent filled the room.
“My brother and my friend and I have some gifts for you. And our uncle sent these oranges from his orangery.” Her heart took flight. “Always remember there are people in this world who wish you happy. And no matter what befalls you, be strong, be of good courage, and love one another.”
In spite of their excitement and hunger, one by one, the children came forward in an orderly manner to grab an orange. Ambrose handed Meg and Kitty their Burlington Arcade packages. Together, they passed out stockings, shoes, and hats, which the children, eager to cover their battered feet, and cold heads, immediately donned.
“Well done, Kitty. Well done,” Ambrose whispered. He quickly left her to join Meg, who was tying a little girl’s shoe.
Bart appeared at Kitty’s side, startling her with his stealthy approach. “You’ve won their hearts, Lady Catherine.”
“I had help,” she said, hardly willing to take credit for something she hadn’t done alone. “And only because the poor dears receive little conveniences.”
“I disagree,” he countered.
She flicked her gaze to his. “Am I wrong in supposing little has been done to clothe and house them?”
“No.” Guilt crossed his face. So it was true. The aid they sought for the children had not yet come, and it would not come at all if support for the Ragged Schools wasn’t obtained. “But that is not what I meant. Your voice is . . . Well, it’s like an angel’s, and I—” He stopped midsentence when Ambrose approached.
“We really must make haste if our carriage is to arrive in time for the next train.” Ambrose regarded his friend happily. “You do understand, don’t you, old chap?”
“But of course,” Bart said, his stare engaging hers. “It takes longer to travel in the city.”
Ambrose droned on about the congested streets and how difficult it might be to traverse them. He bemoaned that if they didn’t catch the next train, Papa would take him to task for not delivering Kitty home on schedule. Then, catching sight of Meg playing with several children, he broke away to fetch her.
To her surprise, Bart clasped her hand and rubbed his thumb along her palm. “I am not the man you think I am.”
Her gaze locked with his. “I do not know who you are, Mr. Fernsby, and therefore cannot form an opinion.” Though Papa would demand one when she returned home.
“I’d do anything to change that.” There was a spark of hope lighting his eyes. “To show you who I really am.”
“I think”—she chose her words carefully so they wouldn’t be misinterpreted—“you fight very hard to shut people out, and that closed door makes it very hard for anyone to know your heart.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, “You are very insightful.”
“I am a realist,” she said. Few opportunities would ever fall into her lap. Unless lightning struck and she married for love. She pined for the type of devotion her parents shared. “And yet I see things how they could be.”
Before he could respond, Ambrose arrived. “Do forgive the intrusion.” He locked Kitty’s arm in his and steered her toward the staircase that led to Field Lane’s entrance. “I made my father a promise. If we don’t leave now, I shall never hear the end of it.”
“Please,” Bart said gruffly. “Make haste.”
Kitty found herself wondering at his tone as they all walked up the staircase, crossed the threshold to the stoop, and then approached the open door of the carriage.
While Ambrose helped Meg inside, Bart touched Kitty’s elbow. “Thank you,” he said. He had put on his hat and behaved like the proper gentleman once more.
“For what?” she asked, careful not to read more into his speech but hopeful he would open up to her.
“For coming to London. For visiting Field Lane. For the gifts, and singing so sweetly to the children, and—” He stopped.
She waited for him to go on, but when he did not, she gave him a tremulous smile. “You’re quite welcome.”
He leaned close, the heat of his voice brushing over her neck. “I would dearly love to hear you sing again.”
Heat swept over her. Her lips parted, but her tongue refused to oblige.
“What’s that, old boy?” Ambrose asked, returning to guide Kitty to the carriage. “By the by, you should speak to Father yourself about the financial needs of Ragged Schools, perhaps even my uncle. It would be helpful if you addressed them in person. I say, why don’t you come to Berkhamstead Place for the holiday? We’d dearly love to have you join us. Wouldn’t we, Kitty?”
Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. “I don’t think—”
“Of course, you do,” Ambrose said. “You are one of the brightest women I know.”
Bart didn’t answer. She feared he would come, or that he’d refuse, which would put her at sixes and sevens.
“Well?” Ambrose pressed. “Are you game, old chap? It’s a visit that’s long overdue.”
Bart’s attention strayed to a man who was drawing near them. He shook his head, then touched the brim of his hat. “That wouldn’t do.”
“Why not? You have nowhere else to go.” Ambrose’s declaration surprised her. Was he really without anyone to share Christmas with? Was that why he hated it?
Words spilled from Kitty’s mouth before she could stop them. “Do you not have any family?”
“Not anymore.” His confession sank to her stomach like an anvil.
How dreadful.
“Join us, Bart,” Ambrose said again. “You know where we’ll be. The invitation is extended to you always. But think what an excellent opportunity it will be to speak to both my father and my uncle in one place. You are bound to win their support for the Poor Law Union, I daresay. Tell me you’ll consider it, won’t you?”
Bart’s eyes met Kitty’s, his searching, hers hopeful. “I’ll consider it.” With that, he bowed and touched his hat again. “Good day.”
The driver hailed Ambrose. “If ye be wishin’ to reach the station, we best be on our way, guv’na.”
“Right you are,” Ambrose exclaimed. “Come along, Kitty.”
Within minutes, they were situated against the squabs and the horses stepped lively down the lane. Meg and Ambrose immediately began discussing the state of the property and the children at Field Lane. Bart filled Kitty’s thoughts. She craned her neck to look out the window, hoping to spot him in the road. He was alone—lonely. How she wished they’d been able to dine at the Euston, as he suggested. Perhaps then . . . Oh, where was he going? Would he accept Ambrose’s offer?
Her heart raced. What if, after all these years, he did?
Chapter Seven
Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire
December 24, 1843
“This way, sir,” a porter called as Bart stepped off the train and onto the platform at Berkhamstead Station.
Another train attendant moved on to help a woman and child board the stairs. “Here it is, ma’am. Next stop, Tring Station! All aboard!”
Bart lowered his valise to the ground, not for the first time doubting whether or not he’d made the right decision to journey to Hertfordshire. While the scenery—over twenty-six miles of rolling landscape through dipping slopes, woodland, and river—had been a delightful change from the congested streets and dreary, sooty London skies, he felt quite unqualified for country life. He heaved a sigh, quite cognizant of why he’d traveled to the quaint hamlet.
Kitty.
He’d lain awake at night picturing her as she was when she’d boarded her carriage and vanished from Saffron Hill. How he’d wished in vain for her image to do the same.
Wishing for something out of reach had never benefited him in the past. Prayer hadn’t saved his parents’ or his grandfather’s lives. Poverty had taught him much in the way of survival. While Uncle Matthias had bolstered Bart’s mind and schooled him in industry, investments, and material things, sharing his emotions wasn’t as easy to learn.
Bart wasn’t sure how to move forward. How did a man combat something beyond his control? He was damaged. He knew that all too well. But every time he closed his eyes, Kitty was there. He hadn’t been able to eat, to think, to sleep . . . In truth, she had taken him over entirely. Nothing but a quest to escape financial failure and scandal had possessed him so—until now, until her. Thankfully, his sudden acceptance of Egerton’s invitation provided other opportunities: a chance to examine Nugent House off Berkhamstead’s High Street, which the locals termed Ragged Row, and to attend a meeting with the Berkhamstead Union Guardians.
Tom Fool scheme! He never should have wasted six shillings and six pence on a ticket to Hertfordshire. It is Christmas. Why am I going anywhere at all? I hate Christmas! True, and by visiting Berkhamstead Place this time of year, he’d be forced to participate in midwinter festivities. How could he refuse without seeming rude?
Hell and damnation! Why must my secrets be efficiently guarded like an oyster’s?
Vapor jettisoned from the locomotive engine, jarring him back to reality. Luggage in hand, passengers of various characters and ages darted past, accompanied by porters who guided them to the first-, second-, and third-class cars. A select few stood on the platform, wary of the tracks, while others paid their fares at the brick-gabled booking office.
The steam trumpet blew. Passengers and hangers-on alike started as the packed train prepared to depart. Another shrill whistle rent the air. The train’s suspension shifted, axles, springs, and wheelsets revived. Gears engaged. In a trice, the steady chug-chugga-chug across the tracks consumed his world.
It was too late to change his mind now.
For a space in time, the only thing that existed was the West Coast Main Line until gradually, a bridge spanning a canal and connecting the railway station to the town came into view. Confounded, Bart spun around to get his bearings. Behind him stood the ruins of a castle Egerton had spoken of frequently. In its heyday, the keep had housed Henry II; Edward, the Black Prince; Thomas Becket; and Geoffrey Chaucer. The castle’s bailey was long-since gone, and he’d been told that sections of the castle walls remained, even though much of the earthworks and the castle gatehouse had been removed to accommodate Berkhamstead Station.
He knew too much about this place. Deuce it, why had he come?
To obtain financial backing for the Ragged Schools from the Earl of Bridgewater, he reminded himself. The lie made his head pound but helped gird his loins.
A porter passed him on the platform, greeting him pleasantly. “Happy Christmas, sir.”
Christmas! He nodded, silently cursing the holiday that had stolen his life. He tipped his hat with a smile, but when the man was out of range he couldn’t help muttering, “Humbug.”
The irony was beyond him. People parading about oozing holiday spirit when human beings cried out for help. If only his father hadn’t gambled away their lives. If only his parents hadn’t been sent to the Marshalsea over a bet of forty pounds. If only they hadn’t contracted the ague. Shunned, without connections affording even the tiniest luxuries, and being denied basic needs, his parents were given early-morning breakfasts and dinners composed of sugarless gruel. Two nights of veal, plum pudding, and porter, a stout beer, on Christmas and Boxing Day could not quench a year’s worth of privation.
Where was the justice in that?
He shook his head, angry that a stranger’s kind salutation had plunged him into these morose thoughts. He removed his pocket watch and glanced at the time just as a voice rose above the diminishing clamor of steel on the tracks.
“Bart! I say, Bart! Is that you, old chap?”
Egerton. The man was always on schedule.
Bloody hell, Bart wanted to hurry on to the next station with a slap and a dash and book a ticket back to London. But the die had been cast. He hailed his friend. “Capital! As it happens, I just arrived.”
“So I see.” Egerton’s smile broadened. “And did you have a pleasant trip?”
“An hour and a half of dazzling scenery kept me company,” he admitted, unable to remember the last time he’d gazed upon greenery and sunshine.
“Brilliant!” Egerton clapped a hand on Bart’s shoulder. “I’ve always said it will do you good to see the world for yourself. Now,” he said with a conspiratorial look, “allow me to tell you, I could not have been more surprised when I received your letter. I’d given up hope that you’d accept my most recent invitation. And yet, here you are!”
“Indeed.” His stomach constricted. To disguise the pang of conscience, he put on the mask he always wore, smiling, nonetheless. “I pray my timing is not off. After your visit to Field Lane, I imagined myself visiting Ragged Row to see how the Union Guardians treat its countrymen.”
