Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance Carol Rivers (great books for teens .TXT) 📖

Ettie felt the shaking of the bonds that bound her to this room and hesitated. But Terence refused to let her remain and took her to the drawing room where he made her rest.

‘Tea, that’s what we’ll have. And a talk, before I do – well, what’s necessary for our departed friend.’

Ettie listened to Terence’s movements in the kitchen. They were comforting and for a little while she regained some normality. But then the full impact of what had transpired overshadowed her.

Her employer was gone and so, too, was his beloved wife. She would never cook for them and serve them breakfast or dinner again. She would never shop at the market in order to buy the best vegetables and fruit. She would never clean and dust the household and hear Clara’s grateful thanks, spoken in her soft and gentle voice.

And the nursery! What of that room filled with the trappings of welcome? The perambulator and crib, the pretty curtains and nursing chair. Now Clara would never rest there and Ettie would never watch mother and baby with immeasurable happiness. No, the chair would remain vacant in that silent, unoccupied room. The happiness and laughter that was expected – that happiness would never, ever be.

‘Now, drink this all the way down.’ Terence pressed her cold fingers around the warm shape of a mug. ‘Don’t expect you’ve looked after yourself, have you?’

Without seeming to expect an answer, he sat in Clara’s chair, his face full of concern. ‘Now, dear, tell me what happened?’

Ettie drank a little, but felt no refreshment. The thought of the desolate nursery was lodged in her mind; the empty crib, the stationary perambulator, the crucifix meant to protect and was now an emblem of death beneath her employer’s pillow.

‘Ettie, rally yourself, girl,’ Terence implored her. ‘Let loose on Terence whose shoulders are broad and waiting.’

She gazed into his kind face, all round and full with good health – unlike the face she had left upstairs, with eyes closed that would never open again and lips sealed, never to take a breath.

Suddenly the outpouring came; a flood of tears followed by great, gasping sobs that prevented any speech. In the same way she had comforted her employer, Terence comforted her and every now and then, offered a consoling pat.

He pulled a crumpled rag from his apron pocket and pushed it into her hands. ‘Dry them cheeks now, little beauty. Mop ‘em up, but don’t stop weeping till you’re as empty as that fire grate. I didn’t stop for my Gladys, no. Must’ve been a whole week I bawled. Maybe more. And to think of vittles, even a nice pork chop, well, my stomach revolted at the prospect. It’s the weeping comes first, see? Then the hole. This great big, rotten black hole that gulps you up, mixes you round till you don’t know what time of day or night it is, not that you blooming well care about time.’ He sat back with his hands on his knees and sighed. ‘So Terence understands and is listening. The physician told me the tobacconist’s sad story, but there’s more to it I’m sure. Now, I know your departed employer was grieving the loss of his family. But the appearance of him, well, it shocked me!’

Ettie mopped her eyes, smelling on the rag the wood sawdust that covered Terence’s shop floor and a whiff of the dripping he sold on his counter.

‘He couldn’t have eaten in days.’

‘How did he travel to England?’

‘He said a coach here, a carriage there. Then he went on foot to the Channel.’ A sob rocked her as she caught her breath. ‘And arrived back here, penniless.’

‘Penniless?’ repeated Terence with a frown. ‘Why this very business, his family’s fortune – a security that would enable him to travel like a king! Did you tell him about The Old Lady deposit?’

Ettie nodded. ‘I did, but he grew angry at the mention.’

‘Why, that is very strange!’

‘In his confusion. he asked for the Pass Book.’

‘The temporary one?’

‘His thoughts were so entangled, I could make nothing of them. He spoke kindly of his mother, but grew furious at his papa. It was as if he …’ Ettie trembled at the memory of those blazing eyes fixed into nothingness, ‘as if he could see him in the room and hated him.’

Terence leaned forward to mutter, ‘Now, now, dear girl, the poor man was off his mind.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Ettie and dabbed her wet cheeks. She looked anxiously at the butcher. ‘What will happen now?’

Terence drew in a deep breath. ‘The physician will certify him. The undertaker will bury him. And the living will mourn him.’

Ettie remembered when the old bishop had died during Lent. The tabernacle and the altar, the holy pictures and statues were draped with deep purple cloths. The coffin stood overnight before the altar and in the morning all the orphans had crowded in, their eyes fixed on the ornate wooden box with gleaming brass handles. The nuns had sung hymns of great solemnity and the new bishop had conducted the Requiem Mass.

None of them had known then it was the end of an era.

But it was.

Chapter 42

The undertaker suggested the open casket should remain in the drawing room for seven days, which to Ettie, seemed an unnatural length of time.

The old bishop had lain in his wooden box for just two days in the convent chapel. To Ettie, the recollection of this, though some years ago, seemed natural and in accordance with her beliefs. During Requiem Mass the nuns and congregation had filed past the coffin, solemnly bowing their heads and making the sign of the cross.

The orphans were too small to view the marble-white features of the old man and had been ordered to remain seated on their pews. But Ettie had attended the benediction the previous day. Being taller in height she had paused at the coffin. She had never seen a corpse before