Read It Happened One Christmas Online
Authors: Kaitlin O'Riley
It Happened One Christmas (3 page)
“You shouldn't sit in that chair anymore! It's too low. Come, let me help you to the bed.”
Colette accepted her assistance readily and followed her into the master suite. “I hope I have this baby before Christmas.”
“I do, too. Now slip off your shoes and lie on your side.”
After Colette had managed to situate her petite body on the bed as comfortably as her growing shape would allow, Lisette covered her with a soft woolen blanket.
“Thank you,” her sister murmured.
“You're very welcome, but you need to let Rose help you with Phillip more often. You're exhausted.”
Lisette noted that her sister's delicate facial features, which were so like her own, were drawn and tired. Colette's blue eyes had circles around them, and her dark hair hung loose and thick about her shoulders. The pregnancy had given her tresses a lovely shine, but her usually beautiful and vibrant sister appeared wan and weary.
Colette insisted upon taking care of her son without the assistance of a nurse or nanny, leaving the perfectly capable Scottish woman that Lucien hired in spite of Colette's protests with very little to do. Even after Phillip was born, Colette had spent at least two afternoons a week at the bookshop working with Paulette. Her sister's independence and determination to do everything herself was wearing her ragged.
“Let Rose help you,” Lisette suggested again. “She passes most of her day in the kitchen gossiping with the cook when she should be here helping you with Phillip.”
“Maybe you're right,” Colette murmured, unable to keep her eyes open any longer.
“No maybes,” Lisette declared firmly. “I shall send Rose up later with Phillip's supper and a tray for you. Now get some rest.”
Once again, Lisette tiptoed from the room, leaving her sister and nephew in peaceful slumber. Out in the hallway she made her way to her own bedroom in the opposite wing of the house. A nap sounded like a good idea to her, too. Now that she knew she would be traveling to visit their mother in Brighton in the morning, she would need all the rest she could get.
“Lisette!”
She turned at her name. Paulette, her younger sister, came rushing toward her, her blond curls flying around her anguished little face.
“What is it?” Lisette asked.
“Did Colette speak with you? Are you going to visit Mother? I cannotâ”
“Yes, I know,” Lisette interrupted what she knew would be a list of reasons Paulette could not be spared. “I'm going to Brighton by train tomorrow. Don't worry.”
Paulette's expression lit up with a radiant smile. “Oh, thank you! I would go to her, but with preparing the bookshop for Christmas and everything, I just can't leave. And you know how Mother can be. You are so good with her. I don't know what we would do without youâ”
“It's fine. Truly. I don't mind going at all.” She turned and continued to walk to her room, simply wanting to be by herself to think about . . . things.
Paulette called after her, “You are an angel, Lisette.”
3
What Child Is This?
Oh, sometimes stealing was just too easy.
Tom didn't like stealing from people. He really tried not to, but sometimes it was simply far too easy.
Some fancy toff would walk by with a big fat purse acting as if he owned the world, and Tom just couldn't resist taking something from him. Besides he needed that money. And so did Mama. He always told her he earned whatever money he stole because Mama thought he was still working for the old shoemaker. But Tom promised himself he would go to hell before he ever went back to work for that old blighter again. Not after what he tried to do. No sir! Tom was no fool.
It pained him to know that Mama would worry if she knew that he was stealing, but what she really feared was that he would get caught. Tom feared that, too, to be sure, but he knew he wouldn't get caught. He was too quick on his feet, his touch so light, he was long gone before anyone realized that they'd been pinched. Besides he knew he would not always be forced to steal to survive. So he let Mama believe he was still working for the shoemaker. That giant arse! How he hated that man.
Tom had a plan. Yes sir. He had a fine plan to help him and Mama.
Because he certainly didn't squander all the money he stole. No sir. In fact, he saved more than he spent, and he'd saved up quite an impressive bit so far. Someday he and Mama would live in a proper house and she wouldn't have to work her fingers to the bone for a few measly shillings.
Now, eyeing the fancy gent with the long navy coat as he stood and bartered with the young lass selling matches, Tom watched with calculated carefulness as the man removed the purse from his pocket and gave her a coin. With practiced skill Tom observed which pocket and slid off the barrel on which he had been perched in a casual pose, pretending to bite his fingernails. Pulling his tattered tweed cap low over his head, Tom slowly moved toward his intended target.
As the gentleman ambled through the busy lane, he did not notice the small boy who followed him, nor did he feel the quick little hand that slipped inside his coat pocket and removed his purse in the blink of an eye. Jostled by the bustling crowd, the man walked on his way, oblivious of the boy who raced in the opposite direction with all of his money stashed inside his threadbare shirt.
His heart pounding with excitement and exultation, Tom did not stop running through the crowd until he reached the grimy alley he knew like the back of his hand. Only then did he stop and catch his breath for a moment. It wouldn't do for the big lads to see him all rushed and breathless. Tall Jerry Gray and his little gang would be all over him in an instant and take his money as they had a time or two before. The purse was safe enough inside his shirt for now. Ignoring the guilt that threaded through him, he would count it all later, in the safety and privacy of his home.
Instead he walked casually along the grimy Saint Giles alleyway toward the rundown building in which his mother rented a tiny garret room. Stepping over scattered refuse and dipping under tattered clothing hung on lines to dry in the freezing cold December air, he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of trouble from the gang boys.
One thing Tom had learned to stay clear of was trouble.
“Hullo, Mrs. Framingham.” Tom nodded his head at the practically toothless old woman who stood in the doorway of the wooden building, her filthy apron covering her even filthier skirt. She always stood guard at the door on rent day, making sure each of her tenants was accounted for and no one slipped by her.
“Got the rent money?”
Tom had the rent money all right. It was right there in his shirt. It just wouldn't do to tell old Mrs. Framingham that just yet. He flashed her a wide smile. Ladies always liked when he smiled at them. “Ma will bring it home today.”
“She'd better.” The woman reached out to smack Tom's head affectionately as he passed by.
Tom ducked, missing her hand. “She will. I'll bring it to you myself.”
“You do that, little Tom,” she cackled at him as he ran inside.
He climbed the four flights to the garret, taking the warped steps two at a time. The sound of Mrs. Greenway's two little babies screaming and the Johnsons' mangy hounds barking, as well as the drunken voice of old Mr. Hollister yelling and cursing obscenities at his cheating wife, followed him up the staircase. But these were usual sounds and he paid them no mind. Only quiet would make him worry. Silence in this place would signal that something was terribly wrong.
He fiddled with the key in his pocket and unlocked the door to half the garret. It was a tiny space, even considering it was just for the two of them. The Greenway family on the other side of the wall had eight people crammed in the same-sized space, so he and his mother felt lucky to have so much room. The little garret was neat as could be, sparsely furnished with a few sticks of used furniture. A small table stood before the fireplace with two spindly chairs. A large old trunk was crammed into the corner under the lone round window. The thin pallet he shared with his mother occupied the corner farthest from the one little window, which was broken and stuffed with rags. The garret was brutally cold and damp in winter and sweltering in the heat of summer. In the summer they moved their pallet close to the window and pulled the rags out to catch a bit of a breeze when one would come.
But now it was bitter cold. It was just as cold inside as the December afternoon outside and filled with dark shadows in the late afternoon gloom. Tom lit a stubby tallow candle and pulled the purse from inside his shirt. Turning it upside down, he poured the money onto the cracked wooden table. He loved the noise the coins made as they clattered. In the flickering candlelight, he counted the money three times, just to be sure, because he couldn't believe his good luck. It had to be a dream. Two whole pounds. He stared at the fortune on the table before him. Two whole pounds!
A smile spread across his freckled face and he gave a little whoop of joy.
He had guessed the toff was loaded, but this was the largest amount he'd ever pinched! He knew just what he would do. First, he would go out and buy some meat pies for supper to surprise his mother. He would set aside some of the money to pay his part of the rent. Then he would save the rest, adding it to his little treasure hidden beneath the floorboard behind the trunk. And perhaps he would take a little extra and buy his mother some new thick gloves for Christmas, to keep her hands warm. She would like that.
As usual, he slid the battered trunk by sitting on the floor and pressing against it with his back and pushing hard with his feet. With the trunk out of the way, he then lifted the warped wooden plank and removed the leather pouch that had once belonged to his father and where he stashed his ill-gotten gains. The bag was becoming heavier and heavier, and a wave of pride swelled within him at the sight. He had accumulated a lot of coins in the last few months.
Picking pockets was a trade he'd begun just last spring, after he quit working for Mr. Rutledge, the shoemaker. It seemed Tom had a good eye for the perfect pocket and always managed to pinch a loaded one. He never stole from people he didn't think could afford the loss. He had to have standards, after all. He was not a common thief. Not like the gangs that terrorized the neighborhood and robbed from everyone, even the poor, like Mama and him. That's why Tom kept his money well hidden and never let on that they had any more than anyone else.
If Jerry Gray and the rest of those blighters had any idea how much money Tom had stored under the floorboard, they would tear the house down to get it. He had no doubt of that. They were always trying to recruit Tom to be part of their gang, but Tom just steered clear of them as much as possible.
He patted the bag of money, knowing he now had close to three pounds, a bloody fortune, and fitted the board back in place. He moved to the other side of the trunk and pushed it back on top of the loose board.
When he finally told her about the money he'd saved, his mother would be surprised and so happy she wouldn't care that he had stolen it. At least he hoped so. He took the remaining amount of money and ran out to the street by going down to the cellar and climbing out the cellar window to avoid old Mrs. Framingham. From the vendor on the corner he bought two hot meat pasties, a loaf of crusty bread, and a small fruit tart. He returned to the garret in the same roundabout manner and set the table for their little dinner feast. His mother would be tired when she came in, and this would cheer her. He grinned just thinking about it. He put some coals on the fire as well, to help take some of the chill out of the attic.
Mama didn't want him to steal and would be heartbroken to know that Tom had. But he wouldn't ever tell her. He would say he found a shilling on the street, as he had done before. She always said, “My Tom has the keenest eyes and can spot a coin on the ground a yard away!”
She had warned him to stay away from the gang lads, and he had kept that promise. He had been so good. The first time he stole, it really had been an accident. But he couldn't help stealing when he knew the money would help them. Mama wouldn't let him be a chimney sweep's chummie because she said it was too dangerous, even though Tom was small and spry enough, even at the great age of ten. She wouldn't let him go to the factories either. There wasn't much else a small boy could do to earn a decent living. He needed to help his mother.
He was the man of the house now, and he had been for as long as he could remember.
Papa had died when Tom was just a little boy. He had been only five years old at the time. If he closed his eyes real tight, he could almost see Papa's smiling face. His wide green eyes, with crinkles in the corners. His long brown mustache that he let Tom tug on once in a while. He could almost hear his deep voice. But those memories were getting more difficult to recall, becoming hazier and cloudier. He tried hard not to forget Papa. Or Ellie. Back then it had been the four of them. Mama. Papa. Tom and Baby Ellie. Then Papa got sick, real sick with the cholera, and they took him off to hospital and he never came back. Mama had cried for days. Weeks. Months. She cried late at night when she didn't think Tom was awake. But he was.
Then a year ago Christmas, Ellie had died, too. His little sister caught a fever and died right there in the garret. She was only four years old. He missed Ellie. He hadn't forgotten her, as he had Papa. Her memory was still fresh and painful. He could still see her sweet freckled face, so like his own, and her long red braids. Ellie had the best laugh in the world, and he could make her laugh so easily. He missed his little sister.
Now it was only the two of them when it had once been four. He and Mama.
Tom had just finished arranging the meat pasties on the chipped china plates with the tiny blue flowers that had once belonged to his grandmother, when he heard the latch on the door and Mama came in. The weary look in her eyes filled him with sadness, and he wished she would smile and laugh as she used to. It had been a long time since he had seen Mama smile a real smile with her eyes.
“I found a shilling on the way home, so I got us some hot supper tonight.”
“Bless you.” Anna Alcott sighed, sitting at the wobbly table and eyeing the little feast he had set for them. “You do have a talent for finding money, my sweet Tom.” She patted his arm.
Relieved she didn't question him further, he sat beside her and dug into the tasty meat pie. It was a minute or two before he realized that Mama hadn't touched the food in front of her. “Aren't you going to eat?”
“I'm not hungry right now. Perhaps I'll save it for later.” She rubbed her hands together, warming them and massaging her aching joints.
Tom knew her fingers hurt from sewing all day at Madame La Fleur's dress shop. She had been working there for years now, but the physical toll such labor required had begun to show its effects upon her body. Ten to twelve hours a day hunched over expensive fabric and lace, sewing ball gowns, dresses, and undergarments was taxing. Her eyesight had weakened and her muscles ached. She suffered terrible headaches as well.
“Have a bite,” he encouraged her. “It's good.”
She nodded, stabbing at the pie with her fork. She nibbled on a small piece and placed the fork on her plate. “It's delicious. Thank you.”
“There's bread, too.”
“I'll have some in the morning.”
“And a fruit tart.”
She shook her head and frowned. “You shouldn't have spent so much.”
“We have to eat, Mama.”
Her expression softened. “You are a good boy, Tom. And you work too hard for a nine-year-old.”
“I'm ten now. Remember?” He squared his shoulders with pride.
“Yes, that's right. You are, but you still take on too much for a boy your age.” Her blue eyes filled with regret and sadness.
“I'm almost a man.”
“You may think so, but you've got a ways to go.” Mama rose from the table and moved to the thin pallet of blankets that served as their bed. With a heavy sigh she laid her body down, tucking her hands under her head, and closed her eyes in abject weariness.
Other books
The Watcher by Jo Robertson
Un oscuro fin de verano by Inger Wolf
JET V - Legacy by Blake, Russell
The Belly of Paris by Emile Zola
The Magykal Papers by Angie Sage
The Devil's Right Hand by J.D. Rhoades
Ten Word Game by Jonathan Gash
Presidential Lottery by James A. Michener
Broken Dreams by Rissa Blakeley
The Bartered Virgin by Chevon Gael
