The Peace of Christmas Yet to Come: Sweet Regency Romance (A Dickens of a Christmas Book 3)

by L G Rollins

  Chapter Twenty

  It was already past midnight when Hugh reached the small rooms behind the stables which the Cratchits rented. Martha’s rebuke that afternoon had not left him all evening. She had been right. He’d known he needed to talk to her about Tim, but the timing had never seemed right, the place never what it needed to be. The moment had simply never presented itself, though in hindsight he realized that was hardly an excuse.

  Now, he was paying for his silence. The ride here had put him strongly in mind of the night he’d first come to bring Tim back to Stonewell Castle. Gads, but so much had happened since then. So much had changed. He’d changed.

  And that was why he was here now. He needed Martha to see as much, to know—no matter what she may or may not feel for him—that he wasn’t the same man she had insisted move out of her way so she could polish a church pew.

  He dismounted and moved quickly up to the door. Only the barest sliver of light shone through the window. He heard no voices either. Were they all sleeping, then? It was the logical conclusion, given the late hour. He’d almost not come. Logic dictated that he wait at least until morning. But after being unable to eat, then unable to sleep, he’d finally given up and yielded his logic to his heart’s desire.

  Hugh stared at the door. He was already in Martha’s black books. Did he truly want to risk her disliking him even more by awakening her in the middle of the night? He glanced back at his horse. The animal stomped his displeasure at being out in the freezing air, his breath clouding about his nose and mouth.

  Hugh couldn’t stand there all night.

  But neither could he find it in himself to go back home. Not without at least seeing and speaking with Martha first. He threw a prayerful glance in the direction he knew the church house to be, though he couldn’t see it; hopefully he wasn’t about to make matters far worse.

  Hugh knocked on the door. The heavy thud-thud of his knuckles against wood jarred the calm night.

  No noise came from inside. Either the Cratchits were all very heavy sleepers, or they weren’t home. Though, if they weren’t there, he couldn’t imagine where they would go instead. Hugh knocked again.

  There was a groan and a shuffle inside. Someone had gotten up and was hopefully coming to the door.

  “What do you want?” Peter’s voice was muffled by the closed door between them.

  “Peter, it’s me.”

  “I know who it is.”

  Lud, but he sounded upset. Was that because Hugh had awoken him? Or because he, like his sister, could not countenance the company of the man who’d hurt their brother?

  “Well?” Peter said. “What do you want?”

  “I need to speak with Martha.” A breeze flitted by, and even Hugh’s thick greatcoat didn’t keep out much of the cold. “May I come in?”

  “No.”

  Well, that was unfortunate. Hugh drew his hands up to his mouth, cupping them and blowing into them for warmth. “Then may I at least speak with your sister?”

  “She’s not speaking to you.”

  But could she hear him at least? “I want to apologize.”

  “She’s sleeping, and I won’t wake her just for you to yell at her like you do everyone else.”

  Hugh pressed his lips tightly together. He’d begun to look on Peter quite fondly, almost as though they were brothers themselves. Yet another thing he’d ruined in his determination to dislike anyone who might threaten his peace—which, until he met the Cratchit family, had been everyone.

  “Please, Peter,” he said, “I only want to speak with her.”

  A second voice inside the room spoke, but it was too jumbled for Hugh to make it out. Was Martha awake? He removed his top hat and pressed an ear up against the door. No, it didn’t sound like Martha. Tim, perhaps?

  Peter said something in return, but Hugh couldn’t understand either boy now, only that they were engaged in quite the conversation. They didn’t seem to be in agreement.

  “Tim,” Hugh called out. If the boys were in disagreement, there was a possibility that the smaller boy was on his side. “I know it’s late, but I need to speak with your sister.”

  “Don’t you talk to Tim!” Peter’s voice boomed, far stronger than Hugh would have expected from him. “You are never to speak to my brother again. Now go away. I’m the man of the house, and I demand you get off my property at once!”

  Hugh took a step back. He’d never experienced such contempt before in his life, and certainly never from a young boy. It humbled him. He truly had acted most unforgivably where Tim was concerned. And through him, he’d also hurt Peter. He needed to make things right with both boys.

  He needed to make things right with all the Cratchits.

  They weren’t going to listen to him tonight, however. That much was clear. If there was one thing he knew about anger and hurt, it was that time often proved a valuable ally in calming the fury. Hugh moved over to his horse and mounted. At this point, hoping time would heal was all he could do. That, and wonder how much time the Cratchits would need.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Peter muttered something unintelligible as Martha pulled another blanket over him. Their stay at Stonewell Castle had made her forget just how cold the nights truly got this time of year. Her heart beat sorely against her chest. How could she already miss a place after having left it only a week ago, and after having lived there for so short a time? They’d been back home nearly as many days as they’d stayed at Stonewell Castle.

  But if she were being honest, it wasn’t Stonewell Castle she missed. It was Hugh.

  “Hug?” Tim asked as he lifted an arm up and toward her.

  Martha hurried around the bed and to him. She wrapped her arms about him, holding him close. Hugh had made his preference clear, and she wasn’t going to waste any more time feeling sorry for herself. She kissed Tim on the top of his head and helped him lay back down.

  “Will tomorrow be a merry Christmas, do you suppose?” Tim asked, his eyes drooping heavily.

  Martha tucked the blanket more securely around him. Both boys had been quite well-behaved during their Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. Perhaps they’d simply been too tired for their usual fidgeting.

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” She’d managed to purchase a few small things for both boys. She and Grandfather were going without. Even though they had more money now than before the mummers’ play, Martha was loath to spend it needlessly.

  Still, she’d ordered a goose and planned to make a fine meal of it.

  With both boys asleep, the room felt as though it were drowning in silence. Heavens, but she would never think of quiet in the same way she had before.

  Before she met Hugh.

  Before she realized she’d allowed herself to believe he was something he wasn’t.

  He’d come by a few times this past week, wanting to talk. Each time she’d remained in the house, the front door closed between them. Hugh had a way of giving up on speaking and relying on wordless gestures to communicate his thoughts. With a solid door between them, she made her will clear. Either he speak or leave her be.

  It had probably been a bit petty of her. But she was so tired of one-sided conversations. The first time she’d kept the door between them, she felt certain he’d never come back. But then he had.

  Now, she couldn’t help but wonder, if she opened the door, would he revert back to the silence he used to hold forever about him as a shield? Or was he sincere in his insistence that he had changed?

  Until she found the courage to speak to him face to face, she supposed she’d never know.

  The front door opened, and Grandfather hurried in, shutting it quickly behind him.

  “There you are,” Martha said. “I had quite completely given up on you coming home before sunrise.” He’d never had cause to work through the night before, but with the way her day had gone and how many things had turned suddenly wrong, she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if tonight was the first.

  “It
’s Mr. Scrooge. He’s grown terribly ill. It’s come on so quickly, too. He was fine this morning, but now he’s burning up.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Please, Martha, would you come see him?”

  “Me?”

  Grandfather nodded. “Doctor Lock is with another patient tonight. You’ve tended Tim so many times, I’m sure you’ll know the right thing to do.”

  Poor Mr. Scrooge. And on Christmas Eve, too. What a rotten time to be sick. Poor Doctor Lock. The sweet man never seemed to have a moment’s rest.

  Martha’s gaze traveled over her two sleeping brothers. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d been home alone, and Tim was doing much, much better. “I suppose I could look in on him. Though I’m not at all confident I’ll know the right thing to do.”

  Grandfather draped an arm over her shoulders. “Thank you, dear. I know it’ll be appreciated.”

  By Mr. Scrooge? She seriously doubted that. Nevertheless, Martha quickly grabbed her pelisse then shook Peter awake enough to explain to him she was leaving.

  With both boys settled once more, Grandfather opened the door and they stepped out into the bitter cold.

  Hugh sat on his favorite pew, allowing the darkness to envelop him. He’d listened to Midnight Mass from the shadows of the anteroom beside the chapel; he hadn’t been able to stay away. Though he hadn’t emerged from the shadows until he was sure everyone else had left, including the vicar, he had still enjoyed the sounds of singing and the sight of candlelight filling the reverent space.

  Those candles had been extinguished now.

  “Blast it all.” Hugh couldn’t see the tops of the scissor arches at the front of the chapel, but he cast his gaze that way regardless. “How I got here, I don’t know. But I’ve gone and ruined—everything. I wouldn’t blame Martha if she never agreed to see me again.” Hugh shut his eyes and tipped his head back. “Gads, but I need her, though.”

  The calm silence of the church house brought with it a measure of peace—a calm that filled his chest and eased his agitation.

  “Did you ever find yourself in a horrid situation? One you had no idea you were walking into, yet, once you got there, it became immediately clear it was wholly of your own making?” Hugh shook his head. “No, I’m sure You didn’t. You would have known better from the start, avoided the p-p-problem all together.” Curse his temper.

  He’d tried to apologize, but it seemed never to be enough. Had Martha given up on him? Or simply on any hope of a better life than the one she clung to now?

  “I want to be a better man.” Even if Martha never could forgive him, he wasn’t going back to who he’d been. “I guess I just didn’t want to get hurt. So long as I kept everyone at arm’s length, I wouldn’t.” Except, instead of getting hurt, he had hurt others. Tim first, then Martha and Peter. Though, truth be told, before he met any of the Cratchits, he had no doubt caused insult numerous times before with his stubborn silence.

  But no more. Standing, Hugh glanced up toward the front. “I may not deserve her, but I love her. Any help would be appreciated.”

  He strode through the chapel and back toward the doors. He pulled on one, and it opened easily. The cold rushed forward, biting against him. Hugh pulled his greatcoat tighter around his shoulders and pressed down on his hat.

  He moved to step out of the church and back into the night, when a thought struck him—one that didn’t seem to come from his own mind. It was a memory and felt very much like it had been placed before him by an unseen hand. Mr. Cratchit hadn’t been at Midnight Mass with Martha, Peter, or Tim. Hugh hadn’t approached them, but he had seen them leave the church house.

  The elderly man had seemed in fine health only that morning when they’d met, by chance, in Dunwell. If he was well, but not attending Midnight Mass, where was he?

  Most likely at work.

  Hugh paused on the threshold. Was that ridiculous? To think that a man would still be at work well past midnight? And on Christmas Eve, no less? Probably. Then again, several conversations he’d had with Martha came to mind. She was often as concerned for her grandfather as she was for her brothers, and a lot of that concern came because of an odious, stingy employer. One who just might keep Mr. Cratchit in the office late into Christmas Eve.

  If Mr. Cratchit was up late, perhaps he might have some insight into how Hugh might get back in Martha’s good graces. The man hadn’t been willing to say much of his granddaughter the few times they’d spoken. But Christmas Eve could do things to a man’s heart.

  The more he dwelt on the idea, the more it seemed to have merit. A warmth spread through his chest, one that put him in mind of his mother’s hugs. Her smile too, gentle and encouraging, flitted before his eyes.

  Hugh turned back around, speaking into the dark chapel. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Martha walked into the old, rundown office and was shocked at the sight that met her. Mr. Scrooge, bundled up in blankets and sitting by a blazing fire, was actually smiling. If she wasn’t mistaken, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Moreover, he wasn’t alone. A lady and gentleman, along with two children, sat about as well, laughing and giggling.

  Martha blinked a few times. Perhaps she’d passed out sometime during the evening, and she was actually dreaming now. It seemed the most likely explanation.

  The lady, whose red hair was curled and falling down about her shoulders, positively beamed. It was as though she emanated joy all about her. Martha couldn’t help but smile a bit herself, especially when the two children laughed again.

  Grandfather walked up to the gentleman and placed a hand on his shoulder. “My granddaughter is here now. Thank you for staying with him while I retrieved her.”

  “Happy to be of service.” The gentleman gave the lady at his side a nod and they stood together.

  Watching the two gather up the little boy and little girl and shuffle them toward the door only made Martha’s chest hurt all over again. Between the way they looked at one another and communicated easily without many words, it was clear the gentleman and lady were perfect for one another.

  She’d begun to hope she might share that same connection with Hugh.

  Gracious, but thinking about him hurt.

  Martha shook herself softly as the lady and two children walked past her and toward the buggy out front, grandfather speaking to them as they walked. The gentleman stayed behind. Perhaps it was because her heart wouldn’t stop aching, or perhaps her resolve was simply weak from exhaustion, but Martha tiptoed in a bit closer.

  “Sir,” the gentleman said, “I have a matter of some importance to discuss.”

  “Well? Out with it.” Mr. Scrooge’s tone was harsh. In the blink of an eye, the unexpected, cheerful Scrooge was gone, and his normal hardness was back.

  “Sir, I wish to ask for your permission to marry Helena. I understand you are her nearest relation, and I felt it only proper for me to speak with you on the matter.”

  Mr. Scrooge only grunted in return. Martha, however, knew a strong, overpowering desire—a longing that she doubted would ever be filled.

  “Don’t be angry,” the gentleman continued. “Say we have your blessing, and then you can spend every Christmas Eve in much a merry way as this one for the rest of your days.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Why not? You’ve enjoyed tonight—don’t say you haven’t—and I should think you’d like to—”

  “Balderdash. I mean, why marry the girl in the first place?”

  The gentleman smiled. “Because I fell in love.”

  Martha slipped away, as she ought to have done when she had first realized it was a private conversation the gentleman wished to have. Martha walked slowly up and down the small hallway. Grandfather returned, shutting the door behind him. When his gaze fell on her, it held a bittersweet expression.

  Neither of them said anything, but he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close.

  A few minutes later, the gentleman left as we
ll.

  Martha pulled back. “I best go check on Mr. Scrooge.”

  Grandfather nodded and let her go. Martha strode quickly over to the old man and stoked the fire back up. His eyes were shut, and his cheeks were flushed red. She placed a hand against his forehead. He was feverish.

  “Stupid love,” he muttered, not opening his eyes. “Stupid man for thinking such things could last.”

  Martha wasn’t even sure he was aware she was there. Grandfather had been right to bring her; he seemed to be fading fast. There was a real chance he was already too sick for her to help him. She stood up straight. He’d been happy and joking and laughing not more than a quarter of an hour ago. She’d heard of people rallying right before death, of suddenly growing strong and lucid right before their final breaths.

  But, surely Mr. Scrooge wasn’t dying . . . was he?

  “Would you grab some more firewood?” she asked Grandfather. “It’s best to keep him warm.”

  Grandfather nodded and slipped down the hallway toward the back of the building.

  Martha tucked a blanket back up over Mr. Scrooge’s shoulder and under his chin. One of his hands shot out and took hold of hers.

  “I’m sorry, Belle,” he said, his words slurring together.

  Belle? Oh, dear; he was past the point of even recognizing her. That didn’t bode well for him.

  “I didn’t mean to make you leave,” he said, his words scratching like sand against rock.

  Martha patted his hand, then tucked it back beneath the blanket. She’d come hoping she could do something for Mr. Scrooge, but it appeared all they could do was make him comfortable until Doctor Lock was available.

  Grandfather came back into the room, three large logs in his arms. Martha hurried over to take a couple from him.

  “This should keep him warm for a while yet,” she said, straining to smile.

  She knelt down in front of the hearth and poked at the fire, setting first one log and then a second into place.