Ahh, how I knew my little lord. His eyes opened wide at the sight of the package before him. It was too much for him to resist, even if the other temptation at hand was my stiffened cock. I minded not. I was overjoyed to see the delight in his eyes as he sat up in the bed, wrapped a blanket around himself for warmth, and opened the package.
Inside was a silver pen. “It is beautiful, Peter,” he said, a catch in his voice.
“It is inscribed,” I told him, turning the pen around in his hand. “Look.”
“‘For my little lord.’ Oh, Peter…thank you.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it.” He wiped a small, happy tear from his eye and wrapped his arms around my neck, kissing me on my ear. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I replied, my own eyes threatening to moisten from joy.
“You must open yours!” he said, bounding over to his bed table and producing a similarly wrapped object.
Inside was a pair of gold-and-enamel cufflinks. “They are shaped like hearts,” he told me. “Our two hearts, together.” I could hear a small hint of concern in his voice. “Do you like them? Truly?”
“I adore them,” I replied. “As I adore you.” More hugs, more kisses, and then more kisses, and then even more kisses…
“Wait! Wait!” I said, laughing with delight. “We must dress. We will be late for the breakfast!”
Henry playfully groaned. “Why must Christmas be so full of family?” he protested good-naturedly.
“Henry,” I gently chided, “family is one of the best parts of the holiday. We’ll take breakfast with your grandmother, and then this afternoon, we’ll all dine at Uncle Fred’s, including your father, mother, and brother.” At this news, Henry rolled his eyes. “Come now, my little lord, you will rejoice in seeing them.”
“Mother and Edward, yes. Father…”
“You love your father. Just as much as I do mine.”
“That is easy for you to say, Peter Cratchit. Your father is eminently lovable. He is like some father from a storybook. Mine, on the other hand, never approves of anything I do.”
“Tut, Henry, you are being too hard on him. Your father loves you very much. And he is very proud of you.”
“But, Peter—”
“No ‘buts,’ Henry,” I interrupted, smiling. “Your father is proud of you. You’ve been diligent at writing your poetry. You’ve had reviews published in a half-dozen magazines. You’re becoming known in literary circles.”
“He cares naught for any of that, Peter.”
“And you have your new venture to share with him this afternoon.”
“I am going to work for your sister and her husband, Peter. It will not impress him.”
“You are going to work with Bettina and Jeremy, my little lord. As editor-in-chief of their new publishing division. You are on your way, Henry. He will be proud of you. And I am proud of you too.”
“Well, maybe you’re right,” he admitted. I smiled. Henry might always view his father this way, but I could see how pleased William Sewell was at the change in his son. And it wasn’t that Henry had found his life’s calling. No, Mr. Sewell was glad that his son seemed, finally, to be happy. That, in the end, was all that truly mattered to him.
“Come,” I said, rousing myself from the bed and beginning to dress. “We must get ready.”
“Very well.” And yet, though he agreed with me, Henry yawned and made no motion to quit the bed. “But, Peter—we shall have time after breakfast, won’t we? To come back here, I mean.”
I bent and kissed my little lord on the lips. “We shall have all the time in the world.” I stood and smiled. “Now, if you get dressed in five minutes, I shall give you the other Christmas present I have for you. Otherwise…”
That motivated him. Eager as a puppy, Henry was dressed and nearly presentable in record time.
“Here,” I said, handing him another brown-paper package. Eagerly, he tore it open. “Why—Peter—this is it! This is your very own book! I did not think it was to be released until spring!”
“It will not be. You have an advanced copy—the very first copy, my little lord.”
“The Golden Voyage of Peter C, Chapman and Hall, publishers, 1853. I still don’t understand why you didn’t publish it with your full name. Your publisher thinks this will be a sensation. You could be famous!”
“I have no desire for fame, my little lord. Everything I desire is right here, in this room.”
“Clearly, you don’t desire wealth, either, since you are giving much of the royalties away.”
I closed my eyes and thought for a moment of Augie’s mother and sister, who were to receive the lion’s share of the book’s proceeds. I hoped it would provide them some measure of comfort and security. It was no less than what they deserved; without Augie, I would not have had any stories to tell.
Henry knew all this; knew all about Augie, knew the truth of my two years. Well, he didn’t quite know all of it. I may have left one or two spirits out of the tales I had told him.
Henry clutched the book gleefully to his chest. “I shall read it tonight,” he said.
I laughed. “You have already read it a half dozen times, when I was working on the manuscript.”
“Nevertheless, now that it is bound, it deserves a proper read.” He gave me a happy kiss. “I am so proud of you, my love.”
And he was. Despite our shared profession, despite my history with Augie, there wasn’t a single jealous bone in his body. “Now we really must tramp our way to the main house for breakfast,” I said.
Reluctantly, we left our room and made our way down the stairs. We slipped on our coats and stepped out into the Christmas morning air. “Look, Peter!” Henry said. “It did snow last night. We shall have a white Christmas after all!”
Indeed, a good coating of snow covered everything. “Happily, the servants have been out to clear the path. We shall have to remember them later with their own Christmas bequests.”
“I know!” Henry said excitedly. “Why not give each of them a copy of your new book? Autographed, of course.”
I laughed. “I think they will prefer the sovereign coins instead.”
We walked toward the main house. “Perhaps,” Henry mused, “Tetch was busy clearing the path this morning instead of making up the fire.”
I made a face. I suspected Tetch was still snoring away happily in his little room in the back of the carriage house. Still, I could not be cross with the lad, not on Christmas Day. “How beautiful our little carriage house looks with the newly fallen snow,” Henry added. I turned and saw white powder covering the evergreen and holly boughs that decorated every window.
“It is kind of your grandmother to let us live here,” I said.
“It is a family plot. They all wanted someone living with grandmother, but she would not hear of it. This seemed the best compromise.” Henry slipped his arm through mine. “But I do not mind at all. This way, we have our own little corner of the world, all to ourselves.”
I smiled. Henry may have believed that his grandmother did not want any members of her family living in the main house, but I knew better. I quite suspected that the sharp-eyed Mrs. Sewell understood the source of her grandson’s happiness, and loving him as fiercely as she did, wanted to ensure that he and I should have the privacy we needed.
We spent much of our days in the main house with her, and each of us had a room designated as our own space, for writing or reading. We took meals together, though for most breakfasts Tetch brought us warm rolls and tea, while Mrs. Sewell took breakfast in bed. Today, though, was a holiday, and that meant breakfast was to be a formal occasion.
We found Mrs. Sewell waiting for us at the table. “Hello, Grandmother, and Merry Christmas,” Henry said, stooping to kiss his grandmother on the cheek. “Have we kept you waiting long?”
“Not long, dearest,” she affectionately replied.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sewell. Merry Christmas.”
&n
bsp; “Peter Cratchit,” she said to me, her tone full of chiding, “if I have said it to you once, I have said it one hundred times. You will call me Grandmother. It is my house, and these are my rules. Besides, I am old and must be entertained in all of my foolish whims. Is that clear?”
I smiled. My first impression of her was exactly correct; I was very fond of her. “As clear as the stars in the frosty night air.”
She smiled indulgently. “You and your books.” She extended her cheek. “Now, come, and greet me properly.”
I kissed the proffered cheek. “Merry Christmas, Grandmother Belle.”
She patted my own cheek in recompense. “Merry Christmas, dear one.” She indicated that we should sit, and we did. “I hope you boys are hungry.”
“Peter, may I show her?” I did not know to what Henry was referring, but in his eagerness he hardly waited for my response anyway. From within his waistcoat he pulled out the copy of my book I had just presented him. I did not know he had brought it with him. “Look, Grandmother. Peter’s book. Isn’t it exciting?”
“It is, indeed,” the old woman said, taking the book in her hand and examining it. “I shall hope to find a copy for myself wrapped up somewhere in the house,” she added with a wink.
I only smiled. There was.
“And what will be the subject of your next book, Peter?” Grandmother Belle asked me.
“Yes, Peter, do tell. He’s been very mysterious about it, Grandmother.”
“Well,” I said. “I was thinking of writing a Christmas tale. A Christmas tale with ghosts.”
Henry’s eyes bulged. “A Christmas tale—with ghosts!” he said. “That sounds quite fantastical. Don’t you agree, Grandmother?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Henry,” the wise old woman replied. “I think it sounds quite sensible, to be honest. But Peter, dear—what will it really be about?”
I smiled. I grasped her hand in mine and then reached across the table to take Henry’s hand as well. “It will be about what all Christmas tales are about, Grandmother Belle. It will be about family—and love.”
We enjoyed a moment of happy silence before Henry freed his hand and raised his glass. “A toast,” he proposed, and we all cheerfully complied. “A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. God bless us all, everyone!” he enthused, an expression he had gleefully pilfered from my brother Tim.
“God bless us,” I echoed. “God bless us, indeed.”
About the Author
Drew Marvin Frayne is the pen name of a long-time author (Lambda Literary Award finalist) who is finally taking the opportunity to indulge his more sentimental and romantic side. When not writing the author lives with his husband of 20+ years and their dog of 10+ years in a brick home in the Northeast.
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.drewmarvinfrayne.jimdo.com
Other books by this author
The Bibliophile
Connection to Christmas
Room at the Inn
Second Level
Also Available from NineStar Press
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Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol Page 11
