by Mary Balogh
The earl lay for a long time beneath his pillows before finally throwing them off. Even beneath the pillows he could smell Christmas—the mince pies and the plum pudding and the goose. And the greenery with which the house had been decorated the day before while he was out. There were things to be done, most notably the distribution of gifts and Christmas bonuses among his servants. There were smiles to be worn and jokes to be made and hands to be shaken.
And then there was something else to be done. There was Julie to be called upon—when had he begun to think of her as Julie rather than Miss Bevan? he wondered—and that mad visit to be made to the house that might or might not be Charlie’s hideout. And to the mythical family.
Lord Kevern looked with a wry smile at the packages lying on top of a chest of drawers across the room—scarves and mittens he had bought after leaving Julie the afternoon before for Charlie and Violet and Roddy, a shawl for Annie. And another longer parcel, which he had bought earlier, during the morning.
He should walk straight to Bethlehem Asylum, he thought, and save someone the trouble of having to take him there to commit him in a few days’ time. For undoubtedly he had taken leave of his senses. And yet the very sight of the packages and the knowledge of the strange journey he was going to make later somehow made the day seem less impossible to face.
He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair before ringing for his valet. His yearning of the day before had been for a nameless something. And yet at least one longing he had been able to identify even at the time. He had wanted to place his mouth against the lips he had touched with his thumb.
He was glad after all that he had not gone to Buckland Abbey. Ah, he was glad.
“Grandpapa.” Julie leaned over the old gentleman’s chair and tucked the rug more snugly about his waist. He had drawn it up over his feet so that he could look at the slippers she had given him for Christmas. “Lord Kevern and I are going out for a short while to visit Charlie, the little boy I told you about who rescued me the other day. It is time for your sleep anyway. When I return I shall play another hand of cards with you and read to you.”
“Yes, go,” Sir Richard said. “Go, Julie, and give the boy my best regards.” He looked with some keenness at the earl, who had risen to his feet after sitting and conversing for almost half an hour. “Go, and have a merry Christmas of your own, girl. There is no hurry for you to get back. I am tired.”
She kissed his cheek.
“I have a basket to take,” she said, when she and the earl had left the room. “I shall run and fetch it.”
It was the first time he had seen her in out of the cold. Her complexion was as delicate and creamy as he had expected it to be, though there was a flush of color in her cheeks. And her eyes shone with Christmas, even though there seemed to be precious little in her life to cause the sparkle—only three elderly dependents and a boy who would have stolen all her money if he could have got away with it.
And himself. Was he a part of her Christmas? he wondered. Had she woken up that morning and remembered that she was to see him and thought that perhaps after all the day would be bearable?
She returned wearing the gray-blue cloak and the plain bonnet and the worn leather gloves and carrying a covered basket only a little smaller than the one that stood on a seat of his carriage outside her door. She had declined his suggestion that she might want to take Mrs. Stebbins with her as a chaperon.
“This is a sort of holiday for her too,” she had said. “Besides, my lord, I am past the age of needing chaperons.”
Perhaps she would have changed her mind, he thought, if she could have known how his eyes had drunk in the sight of her on his arrival and whenever she had looked away to address a remark to her grandfather. Or how his raw, repressed emotions were soothed by the sound of her voice. He handed her into the carriage and climbed in after her.
“At least,” she said, laughing when she saw his basket, “they will not starve, will they? I have brought handkerchiefs for the children, plain for Charlie and Roddy and embroidered for Violet and Annie. They are not very grand presents, are they? But I know how you noticed poor Charlie’s absence of a handkerchief at the pastry cook’s.”
Her face was alight with warmth and happiness.
“Julie,” he said, “don’t count on finding him. The address I have may not be his. It may not even exist. And it is very probable that the family does not exist.”
“It is Christmas,” she said. “Only wonderful things happen at Christmas.”
He turned his head to look out of the window. Already the streets were getting narrower and less familiar.
“I am sorry,” she said softly. “Your face is shuttered again. It was a thoughtless thing to say. Something less than wonderful happened to you, did it not?”
“It is only,” he said stiffly, “that I do not wish to see you disappointed.”
“I will be sorry,” she said, “if we do not find him at all, because I wish to hug him and wish him well. I will be sad if we find him and there is no family, because he will have been deprived of what all children should have a right to. But the whole day will not have been a disappointment. For you have come out, though something has happened to make you hate Christmas, merely to find and to feed a young boy who should be quite beneath the notice of an aristocrat. A boy you would have beaten with your cane just three days ago although his only crime was being unwilling to starve.”
“Julie,” he said, his eyes still directed to the drab streets passing by the carriage windows, “you are too sentimental for your own good, you know. He would have understood the thrashing far more than the hugs.”
“Understood, yes,” she said. “He would have understood what he must expect of life. But you do not believe that the beating would have been better for him. I know you do not.”
“Oh, well,” he said, turning his head again to look at her, “if you know what is in the depth of my heart, then there is no point in further discussion, is there?”
But she refused to be cowed by the set-down. She set her head to one side and smiled at him. “Those cold cynical eyes,” she said. “But they do not fool me any longer. If your eyes denoted truly what was in your mind and your heart, my lord, you would not be seated in this carriage at this moment on this particular errand.”
He pursed his lips. “I am on this errand,” he said, “in order to save you from certain attack by ruffians. Have you glanced out of the window yet? And to show you how foolish it is to be sentimental and to believe everything a thieving brat cares to tell you. I came so that I may say ‘I told you so’ as we ride back home again.”
“And you came with a full basket.” She laughed. But she did not try to continue the conversation. She turned her head to look out through the window. And there was much to see that was shocking and even mesmerizing to someone unaccustomed to the slums of London. But apparently the carriage of the Earl of Kevern was as shocking and as mesmerizing a sight to the inhabitants of those streets.
The address was certainly not a fictitious one, the earl discovered when his carriage slowed and eventually stopped outside a tall and gloomy rooming house in a narrow street of equally gloomy run-down buildings. Ill-clad men and women lounged in doorways and sat on steps despite the coldness of the weather, and ragged children, many of them barefoot, darted about the street. Most of them were darting in the direction of his carriage and then stopping, saucer-eyed, watching as if he had just dropped in from another planet.
“The King of England lives two ’ouses down on your left, guv,” one wag yelled as the coachman opened the carriage door and, after one pained look of inquiry directed at his master, let down the steps.
“An’ the Queen of England an’ all ’er maids lives on yer right,” someone else called out.
The loungers made merry with the two remarks and embellished them with witty directions to the Regent’s house and those of all the royal dukes and princesses.
“Could he possib
ly live here?” Julie asked, looking almost fearfully out through the door.
But her question did not need answering.
“Cor blimey,” a piping voice cried, “it’s the guv. Now I’ll prove it to you, Pa.”
Charlie had been walking along the street with a small, wiry man, whose right arm was wrapped in ragged yet clean bandages.
The Earl of Kevern stepped down from his carriage. A Daniel into the lions’ den, he thought. But Pa? Was he to be proved wrong after all? And then he closed his eyes briefly as the man sank to one knee. He did not even notice the loud jeers of the lookers-on.
“Sir,” the man said, “I’ve already belted ’im one good, sir, though I ’ave only my left arm to do it wiv, sir. An’ tomorrow mornin’ sharp, sir, ’e was to bring it back and take the consequences, sir. But beggin’ your pardon, sir, ’e’s a good boy, sir, an’ ’as felt the burden of our troubles ’eavy on ’is young shoulders. Don’t tyke ’im to jail, sir. Don’t ’ang ’im. ’Is ma would grieve.”
Good Lord, the earl thought. At any moment he expected the man to try to kiss the hem of his greatcoat.
“Charlie!” he could hear Julie saying. “Happy Christmas, sweetheart. Oh, how good it is to see you.”
“I think there is some misunderstanding,” his lordship said. “Good heavens, man, get up on your feet. I have not come to take Charlie away to jail. I have come because Miss Bevan wished to see him and, er, hug him, and because I, ah, wanted to wish him a happy Christmas.”
“See, Pa?” Charlie said, triumph in his voice. Then he turned an accusing glare on the earl. “Got me into trouble proper, you did, guv,” he said. “When I showed Pa the guinea an’ an ’alf, not to mention the lydy’s ’alf a crown, Pa wouldn’t believe that I come by them honest. Only glad I was that ’is right arm is bandaged up.”
“Whatever ’e did for a guinea an’ an ’alf, guv,” one woman onlooker shrieked to the delight of the growing audience, “I’ll do double for a single guinea.”
“For such an ’andsome gent, she’d do it for free, guv,” someone else said.
Good Lord. The earl started to regret Buckland Abbey again. Did Buckland Abbey belong in the same world as this?
“Charlie earned his guinea and a half,” he said to Mr. Cobban. “Miss Bevan and I have brought some Christmas cooking and some gifts for the children. Is there somewhere more private we can go for a few moments?” He glanced dubiously at the rooming house.
Mr. Cobban smote himself on the brow suddenly at the same moment as a young girl of sixteen or seventeen, neatly though shabbily clad, appeared at the door and looked out anxiously.
“Oh, Pa,” she said, “ain’t she with you?” And then she saw the carriage and the coachman and the earl and her eyes widened.
“She couldn’t come, Annie,” Mr. Cobban said. “She ’ad gone somewhere else.”
“Oh,” the girl said, still eyeing the carriage. “But there is no one else, Pa. What are we goin’ to do?”
Mr. Cobban looked back to the earl. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said, “I can’t invite you into my ’umble abode, sir. The missus is ’avin’ another young ’un, sir, an’ ’er time ’as come. An’ there ain’t no midwife.”
Lord Kevern felt suddenly as if someone were draining him of blood, starting at the top of his head and working downward.
“I don’t know what to do, Pa,” the girl wailed. “An’ Vi’let and Roddy are cryin’ because they’re frightened.”
“Lord bless us,” Mr. Cobban said, scratching his head. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I’ll ’ave to go. An’ if Charlie didn’t steal that money, sir, I thank you kindly.”
The earl would have handed his basket to the man and left without another word. He felt closed in by the narrow street and the tall buildings. He felt as if there were no air in the street. He had to have air. But Julie was speaking.
“I have some little experience, Mr. Cobban,” she was saying. “I have worked with a midwife, though never alone. May I see what I can do to help?”
No! He wanted to grasp hold of her, to pick her up bodily and bundle her back inside the carriage. He wanted to instruct his coachman to spring the horses. He needed air.
“Lord love you, miss,” Mr. Cobban was saying. “Oh, Lord love you. Sent from ’eaven, you was, the two of you, to bless us for Chris’mus.”
“Julie.” The earl caught at her arm as she turned toward the house. “This is not your responsibility. Come back home and I shall send a physician.”
She smiled. “A physician come here?” she said. “No, no, I shall help. Annie looks like a sensible girl and will be an able assistant once there is someone to tell her what to do, I am sure. There is going to be a new child for Christmas. Is that not wonderful and appropriate, my lord?”
His hand slipped from her arm.
She looked searchingly at him. “Go home, my lord,” she said. “Thank you for bringing me here. I shall stay for as long as I am needed, and then I shall get Charlie to show me the way home. He will be an adequate bodyguard.”
She turned and hurried inside the house.
“If you go,” Charlie’s piping voice said from his elbow, “you’ll be a fool, guv. After ’elpin’ Ma, she’ll be glad of them soft seats an’ your shoulder to rest ’er ’ead on.”
“Charlie,” the earl said, taking a deep breath and finding that, after all, there was air left in the street, “you have the head of an eighty-year-old on your shoulders. But your advice is unnecessary. Why should I leave Miss Bevan to your escort later on when she might have mine?”
“ ’Xactly what I was sayin’, guv,” Charlie said. “What’s in them baskets?”
It had to be the strangest Christmas of them all, the Earl of Kevern decided over the next two hours. Indeed, it had to be the strangest day of his life. He would perhaps have been amused by it all—very amused—if he had not been feeling sick at the thought of what was proceeding inside the rooming house.
For two hours he held court in his carriage. He retired there after Julie had gone about her self-imposed duty as midwife, and Charlie climbed in behind him without invitation, curious to discover the contents of the two baskets. Mr. Cobban came inside by invitation, and soon afterward a tiny boy, ragged but immaculately clean, climbed the steps, using hands as well as feet, and raised two arms to be lifted into his father’s lap, where he snuggled up and proceeded to suck his thumb. And then a girl, two or three years older, appeared and sat down close beside Charlie and stared at the earl from solemn, soulful eyes.
“What’s in the baskets, guv?” Charlie asked, though his father had warned him to watch his mouth when he had asked the same question on the pavement.
“That basket,” the earl replied, indicating the smaller of the two, “belongs to Miss Bevan. This one contains a ham and some pastries and bread for your family.”
“Lord love you, sir,” Mr. Cobban said.
“And a Christmas gift for each of you children,” Lord Kevern added.
Violet sat even more still and solemn. Roddy forgot for the moment to suck his thumb. His eyes swiveled sideways to regard the earl fixedly.
“Let’s ’ave ’em, then, guv,” Charlie said, bouncing up and down on the seat and earning for himself another paternal warning.
“Lord love you, sir,” Mr. Cobban said again five minutes later, when the parcels had been opened and scarves wound about chill necks and mittens drawn onto cold hands.
“Cor blimey, guv,” Charlie said, his high-pitched voice sounding excited and more childlike than usual, “I’ll never be cold again.” He wormed his chin down inside the coils of the green scarf until only his eyes were visible.
Violet touched her brother’s arm with a red mitten and smoothed it along his sleeve. “Charlie,” she said, her eyes shining up into his, “I got two presents for Chris’mus.” She looked shyly across at the earl and half hid behind her brother’s arm. “Charlie give me soap.”
Roddy sat looking at his blue mittens, whi
ch were several sizes too large, and holding up his hands for his father’s inspection. Then he discovered that he had to remove one mitten in order to suck his thumb and nod off to sleep against his father’s chest.
The earl found himself involved in a lengthy discussion of the strange tendency life displayed of having its ups and downs. At least, he supposed discussion was an inaccurate description of the proceedings since his own part in them consisted of strategically placed yeses and nos and other monosyllabic acknowledgements of the wisdom of Mr. Cobban’s observations of life.
But one thing was very obvious. The Cobbans were currently living through—barely living through—one of the deepest of life’s downs. Mr. Cobban’s arm was not healing as it ought. The wound kept festering. And without a healthy right arm there was no working. Mrs. Cobban had chosen the worst of all possible times to decide to present Mr. Cobban with another young hopeful, though he generously acknowledged his own part in that inconvenient state of affairs.
“The thing was, you see, sir,” he said with significant looks at the children, “that the deed was done, if you get my meaning, before I ’urt my arm.”
The earl did indeed get Mr. Cobban’s meaning. He knew a thing or two about procreation.
And then Annie Cobban had lost her job as a dressmaker’s assistant when the dressmaker’s niece arrived from the country in search of employment. And Charlie was a good boy, but just a lad of eleven, and his father worried about where his zeal to provide for his family might lead him.
“I was sure when ’e come ’ome with a guinea an’ an ’alf yesterday that ’e ’ad stole it,” Mr. Cobban said. “An’ then when ’e ups and gives the little uns presents this mornin’, I was certain. I belted ’im a good un, I did, sir. Stealin’ was never the way of the Cobbans, sir.”
