by L G Rollins
“Your Grace.” Lady Harriet’s tone was far harsher than before, though still soft enough as to not be overheard by the others. “Is it not rather impolite to refuse conversation with a lady?”
He wasn’t refusing conversation with her—he was merely refusing to use words. The lovely young lady at the church would have understood. The one who he was trying blasted hard to not think about.
“I am sure you were raised to be more of a gentleman than this,” Lady Harriet said, turning to face the performance once more, crossing her arms indignantly.
Raised to be a gentleman, he most certainly was. Hugh wasn’t sure if he felt more annoyed at her statement, amused, or simply bored. The strange truth was, ever since he’d had a real conversation at the church house last week, he found himself craving it. He’d been so content with his wordless life merely ten days ago. Now he ached to speak with someone—one person in particular. But not only her. For the first time in years, he wished he had friends who didn’t mind the way he struggled to speak.
Things had begun to shift, or rather, he’d begun to shift. Going days upon days without speaking a word was starting to irritate him. How could one small woman cause such a change?
Hugh glanced over at the woman beside him. She watched him, waiting, lips pursed in frustration.
“Well, Lady—”
Stupid words. He got no further.
The woman let out a small humph and stood, striding away quickly. Clearly, she thought he’d forgotten her name, and he, her host. Given the easy confusion, he didn’t blame her for being put out. Hugh rapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair. So much for speaking.
He did blame that young lady he’d met at the church. She was the reason he was struggling with his pledge of silence. He still didn’t know her name. He was sure he’d never seen her in Dunwell on those days when he’d visited.
Perhaps she wasn’t actually real at all. Perhaps she was a ghost, an apparition of some kind sent to torture him by reminding him of all he didn’t have.
Even if she was real, he was best off avoiding her all together. His fascination with her could only lead to his own heartbreak. His own unlikeability was not lost on him.
Over the next couple of days, however, his guests seemed intent on making him regret his decision to avoid the church house. It was soon very clear that more than one mother and father had hopes of him offering for their daughter before Twelfth Night. And several of the older gentlemen enjoyed drinking well into the late hours, requiring him to extend his hosting duties far later than he preferred. The expectations were numerous . . . and nearly suffocating.
Not four days after his guests had arrived, Hugh was at his wit’s end. He simply had to get away and find a bit of peace. Though his head told him it was a bad idea, he knew the only place that would work was the church. He ‘enjoyed’ breakfast with his guests and then excused himself without anyone asking after his intended departure. Since he hadn’t spoken hardly a word to anyone, his guests had quickly given up their efforts to converse with him.
It shouldn’t annoy him. It wouldn’t have a few weeks ago. But now he was realizing just how cut off he was from everyone else. Blast that young woman.
He arrived at the church house but looked all around before entering. He saw no signs that anyone was there. Not even Mrs. Gale. He opened the door and stepped inside. He couldn’t hear anyone. He’d hoped that in coming so late in the morning, she would be done with her cleaning and gone. Although, if she wasn’t truly alive and was a ghost haunting the place instead, he supposed she might be around at all hours.
Then again, whoever heard of a ghost haunting a church house? Wouldn’t it be too holy for such an act? The graveyard outside, absolutely. But in here? The chapel?
He glanced upward. “I somehow don’t s-s-see You allowing such a thing.”
Gads, but it felt good to be back here. Back speaking to the one Being who never grew upset when his words were a struggle. Hugh sat back heavily on his favorite bench.
“I know you say we should love our fellow man. Be—kind to our neighbors and all. But why, then, did you make so many insipid ones?” He shook his head, reveling in the peace, the stillness, the solitude. “I suppose it wasn’t your fault, exactly. Some people are just . . .” This time when he stopped, it had nothing to do with his struggle to speak. “I suppose I shouldn’t finish that sentence.”
“Especially not in here.”
Hugh leapt from the seat and whirled around.
Apparently, when he’d come later in the morning assuming the woman would be done with her cleaning, he’d assumed wrong. He glared down at her; since she was so petite, he took full advantage of the fact that he towered over her, squaring his jaw and giving her the darkest scowl he could muster.
“Oh, come now. Let’s not go back to that.” Still, she didn’t seem fully certain he wasn’t about to bite her head off. “I had thought that we . . . perhaps . . . had started to become something like friends.”
His stomach flipped at her words. He should still be mad at her, refuse to speak to her, and scare her off with his brooding silence. She wouldn’t be the first woman he’d done so to. Still, a small voice in the back of his head refused to let him ignore the fact that she’d learned of his speech impediment, but she had never once ridiculed him or looked down on him for it. That small voice sounded a bit like his mother’s, too.
Of course, with her being so short, he doubted she’d ever had the opportunity to look down on anyone in her life, save maybe the two brothers she’d spoken of the other day.
Lud, it was blasted hard to stay upset when she was around.
“Listen,” she said, stepping closer. “I’m guessing that I now know something about you that you wish I didn’t.”
That was putting it mildly.
“So I thought we might even things out.”
Interesting proposition.
“What if I told you something I wish you didn’t know? Then we’ll be equal.”
That was unexpected. “Go on.”
“If I tell you, can we return to being ‘something like friends’?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. She watched him and clearly hoped for an answer, so he shrugged. He supposed he liked the idea of being ‘something like friends,’ but he was no ninny and not about to turn to gushing over the thought.
“Very well. The thing I wish you didn’t know about me is my name.”
His brow dropped. Why would that be a problem?
She shifted about uncomfortably. “Like I already explained, I only took this position because I felt certain I could do it and not have anyone ever find out.”
Ah, yes. And if he knew her name, he might tell others she’d turned to working and quite effectively, quite quickly, ruin her.
“However, since I’d rather us be friends, if you’ll excuse the impertinence, I shall introduce myself to you. Your Grace, I am Miss Martha Cratchit.” She curtsied as elegantly as she might if they were at a Christmas Day ball.
Martha. He rather liked the name. He bowed low, following her overly proper example. “I am Lord Hugh De Ath, Duke of Pembroke.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”
“And you, Miss Cratchit.”
Her cheeks pinked slightly, and the sight did strange things to his equilibrium. He tightened his jaw and turned away.
“C-c-care to sit?” he asked, not looking at her.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I would like that very much.”
She sounded tired again this morning. Miss Cratchit sat on the pew and Hugh joined her.
“Do you work every morning?” he asked, gaze firmly planted on the scissor arch in front of him. It was easier to speak when his stomach wasn’t doing illogical flips.
“Oh, yes. I must be here well before sunrise if I wish to keep the position. Sometimes I finish just after breakfast. Sometimes I’m not done until mid-afternoon. It all depends on how much Mrs. Gale wants done that day.�
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It was no way for a lady to be spending her mornings. What wouldn’t he have done to prevent his own mother from such a life? “Were there no other options?” It was a blunt question, but when one grew up struggling to speak even the most basic phrases, one did not bother with extraneous speech.
“I wish there were.” She didn’t seem bothered by the direct question, just sad. “Grandfather took up working for Mr. Scrooge some years ago. Do you know the man?”
Hugh nodded. “Only by reputation.”
“He’s all everyone says he is.”
“Miserly?”
“The very thing.” She drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Though I ought not criticize Grandfather’s employer. If not for him, we would have been turned out onto the streets years ago.” Her determination to think well of Mr. Scrooge seemed to melt as she spoke, and her tone turned a bit more flat. “Thanks to his generosity, we are sleeping in a freezing house and eating barely more than boiled potatoes meal after meal.”
Her Grandfather made no more than that? Hugh had worked with several farmers, bookkeepers, stewards and the like. He knew what a good day’s worth of work should bring in. With the first heat of anger growing in his chest, Hugh knew better than to try and speak. Instead, he shot Miss Cratchit a look.
She met his gaze for a moment then glanced away. “Mr. Scrooge hasn’t raised Grandfather’s income once. Not ever.” She clasped her hands together in her lap and settled more heavily against the pew. “With the war continuing on, the prices of goods are only rising.”
He’d heard that Mr. Scrooge was strict. Miss Cratchit herself admitted he was miserly. But to be so cold-hearted as to deny a working man enough income to support his family in the most basic manner? It was unthinkable. With his arms still folded, the fingers of his right hand began drumming against his left arm. When a man had people depending on him, he did not turn his back on them.
“I’ve dreamt so many times of walking into Mr. Scrooge’s office and demanding he pay Grandfather more.” She laughed derisively. “Perhaps if I had been born a man, I could get away with such a thing.”
Perhaps someone should walk into Mr. Scrooge’s office and demand he raise her grandfather’s wages. Some men only changed when fear struck them deeply enough. Hugh was currently furious enough to do just that.
“Of course,” Miss Cratchit continued, “if I had been born a man, I could easily have found a means of earning a comfortable living for us all.” She glanced at him once more. She must have seen some of the anger in his expression, for she stilled, and her eyes grew wide.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that you should speak with him.”
If he’d had any ability to speak at the moment, he would have asked, “Why the devil not?” As it was, she seemed to understand, regardless.
“Please, Your Grace,” Miss Cratchit said as she fidgeted, her nervousness spilling out into her hands where he could plainly see it. “If you go visit him, he’ll only blame Grandfather. He will surely fire him.”
She reached out, her fingertips brushing against his arm. Every bit as quickly, however, she drew her hand back as though he’d burned her. Miss Cratchit clasped her hands together.
For his part, her touch had sent a shock through him, one that calmed a bit of his anger while igniting a different sort of heat inside him.
“Please,” she said again. “We’ll manage.”
The frustration at Mr. Scrooge eased, if only a bit, and he gave Miss Cratchit a nod of agreement. He wouldn’t go see the man. Not if she didn’t wish it.
She smiled at him. “That is, of course, we’ll be well so long as I don’t lose my position here.” She made as though to stand.
But he wasn’t ready to return to a life of silence, not just yet, anyways. “Stay?” Even that single word was quite difficult. He focused for a bit on calming himself and then tried again. “Just for a bit?”
Her smile grew and she eased back onto the pew. “If you’d like.” Her lips pursed momentarily; she seemed to be working through a thought. “By the bye,” she finally said, “I’m glad you stopped by today.”
Hugh couldn’t keep his own lips from curving into a smile. He was glad too. More than he’d ever admit aloud.
Martha pushed the door open and walked in to find Peter sitting on the couch next to Tim. They’d brought the couch up close to the hearth the morning after he’d gotten lost and still had not moved it back. It made the room feel awkward, but Tim preferred being in the front room to being stuck in his bed, and Martha took a lot of comfort in knowing he was close to the fire.
“Peter’s playing Napoleon and I’m going to trounce him!” Tim said, then rubbed his finger beneath his nose and sniffled a bit.
He’d seemed to have caught a bit of a cold, but nothing worse. It was truly a blessing.
Martha laughed at the sight of her two brothers taking their small paper soldiers’ lives so seriously. It seemed the perfect scene to return home to after a hard morning’s work. Even better, after a rather long and most enjoyable conversation with the Duke of Pembroke. That was, after they’d somewhat scandalously introduced themselves to one another. She had smiled the whole way home just thinking of it.
“Perhaps,” she said to Peter and Tim, “you should write to His Grace the Duke of Wellington and let him know how it’s done.”
“All right!” Tim cried.
Martha laughed as did Peter. He’d been such a caring older brother since their scare. He played with Tim nearly all the time, which was a huge blessing since Doctor Lock had strictly forbidden Tim to get up and play outside, or even to leave the couch for more than a few minutes at a time.
Martha moved to the hearth and stoked the fire, the boys returning to their campaign on the linen quilt.
Peter’s head snapped back up toward Martha. “Hold on. Did you get paid today?”
He was asking her again? She shouldn’t be surprised; she’d been promising both boys some meat just as soon as she had her bit of coin. “Day after tomorrow,” she reminded them.
Both boys moaned their disappointment, and they returned to their game with sagging shoulders.
Martha would have been more upset at their defeat, only it was a bit too comical.
“We could always do a mummers’ play,” Tim said.
“A mummers’ play?” Martha asked. “Whatever gave you the notion?” Performances done out on the street during the Christmas season were common enough, but usually only put on by those who were even more desperate than they. Besides, what would their neighbors say if they were seen in costumes, performing for pay?
“We should do the one about St. George,” Peter said.
Tim sat up eagerly. “I want to be the dragon!”
Peter jumped to his feet. “Grandfather can be Doctor Quack and bring you back to life after I slay you!”
“Calm down, boys,” Martha said. “Grandsons of viscounts and baronets do not put on mummers’ plays.” They may have sunk far, but she was determined her brothers could still hold their heads up with pride.
Peter dropped to the floor, his words barely more than a mutter. “They shouldn’t eat only potatoes, either.”
Martha’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, dearest.” She leaned down, kissing him on the head. “You’re right. They shouldn’t. Even if I agreed to a mummers’ play, we don’t have the costumes nor have we any fabric we could remake into some. But, listen, I will be getting paid soon.”
Tim didn’t look up at her. Martha pulled back, standing straight once more. How she wished she could promise him the future would be brighter. But some courses were hard to deviate from. She very much feared their current course was not one they could change.
“I need to step out for some water,” she told them. “I’ll be right back in to start dinner.”
Neither boy acknowledged her statement. Instead, they picked up their paper soldiers and began playing once more.
Stepping back out into the cold, Martha rounded
the corner of the house and walked up to the small well both they and the horses pulled their water from. She dropped the bucket in, let it sit for a moment, and then drew it up. Wishing she had something better to dwell on than her brothers’ disappointment, her mind turned, nearly of its own accord, to the duke and their lengthy conversation that morning. After turning away from the topic of Grandfather and Mr. Scrooge, they’d spoken of her brothers for a bit, of his mother, of annoying neighbors and troublesome laundry, and lastly of Christmases gone by.
It was quite sad he’d been made to believe he shouldn’t speak his thoughts aloud. He was quite an enjoyable conversationalist.
“What a shame.” Lord Comerford’s voice came from behind.
Martha turned hurriedly and faced him, nearly dropping the bucket back in the well in the process.
“That such beauty,” he said, motioning toward her, “should be reduced to living in such filth.”
She hated when he walked up behind her like that. It was rude and put her on edge. No doubt he’d guessed as much.
“We get along just fine, thank you.” It was true the horses stunk, and it wasn’t particularly the best street they lived on. But she worked hard to keep their simple, rented rooms clean and well-cared for. She didn’t consider herself ‘living in filth’ in the least.
Lord Comerford tutted, moving up closer. “But someone as small and weak as yourself shouldn’t have to merely get along.”
Martha set her jaw and moved the bucket full of water in front of her, granting her at least something of a shield between them.
“Have you come to call?” she asked, willing her voice to stay steady. “If so, I’m afraid I must remind you of the time. It is far too late, and I am busy, as you see.” Oh, she hoped he didn’t see the fear in her eyes. She understood men like him; if he saw just how much he alarmed her, he would only continue in his unwanted attentions.
“Ah, and I had so hoped to sit with you awhile. We hadn’t the chance for much of a conversation at all the other day.”
