Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance by Carol Rivers (i wanna iguana read aloud .txt) 📗

The nights were closing in and heavy with city fogs. It was ice-cold in the house but she had not lit the fire. Mindful of the drop in takings, she tried to be thrifty. The succulent stew of pigs’ trotters was now a distant memory. Tonight she was feasting on dry bread and cheese, her staple diet.

But she wasn’t hungry. What if the business failed? The prospect haunted her.

Ettie turned away from her untouched meal. She closed her hands together and prayed. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m desperate. Almost a month and the customers are dwindling. Help me not to disappoint Lucas. Bless Clara and make her well. And wherever Michael is, keep him on the straight and narrow. Amen.’

When Ettie opened her eyes, she was staring into the gaze of the portrait hanging over the mantle. Rose Benjamin seemed to be smiling.

Ettie blinked. After a moment she got up and walked to the hearth. Stretching out her hand she touched the elaborate gold frame.

‘Buck up Ettie! Show the world your mettle.’

Ettie jumped back. Her heart jumped. Had the portrait spoken? Surely not. The frame was just painted wood, the image inside a replica of Lucas’s mother. Yet Ettie had heard the words clearly. Had they come from her mind?

Silence again.

Ettie stared around her, fully expecting to see an apparition. But the room was empty. She had been taught by the nuns never to fear God’s spiritual messengers. But there was no sweet voice that Ettie imagined might be her mother, Colleen O’Reilly. The words had come from the portrait. Ettie was at a loss to understand.

She sat down on the chair again. ‘Did you speak, Mrs Benjamin?’ She asked, while her voice was a shaky whisper.

Only silence filled the room. Her imagination had taken over. Yet, if she was to consider those words, did they have meaning? ‘Buck up Ettie! Show the world your mettle.’

An idea came to her. It was something Lucas had said as he read from his diaries. With nervous fingers she unbolted the door to the salon. Lighting each gas mantle, the dark shadows transformed into golden, glowing shelves of tobaccos. One space remained, where a sturdy brass hook poked out from the wall. Ettie had often studied the faded illustration that hung upon it. A muscled arm sprouting three male hands. The first hand grasped snuff, the next a pipe, the third a pound of tobacco. Ettie smiled to herself. The hook was the answer! And finding herself a stool, she began her night’s work.

Chapter 20

‘God rest ye merry gentlemen,’ the carollers sang.

Ettie gazed out of the salon window, her heart lifting at the sight of the raggedy beggars huddled in front of the dirty, cockeyed houses and shops of Silver Street. The scene was transformed into beauty by showers of tiny, pearl-white snowflakes. December had begun with a freezing wind. Now it whistled beneath a threatening sky swollen by purple-grey clouds. She could see the building drifts of snow settling over the smoke-pitted terraces.

Seasonal weather, she thought happily. Cold, gritty weather. Best of all, tobacco weather!

Drawing on her cape, she took two pennies from her purse and went outside. The cold air grazed her face but the weak, hopeful voices of the frozen singers raised her spirits. Raggle-taggle men and women and two small children shivering under worn out-shawls and holed overcoats, but singing all the same.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she wished them.

The boy and girl, scarlet-cheeked and skinny as reeds held out their frozen hands.

The coins fell into eager palms. ‘Thanks, missus. Gawd bless yer.’

Ettie watched them hurry off – a band of brothers and sisters, reminding her of life before Silver Street. A year ago, she had awaited her fate at the orphanage. The bishop’s directive had separated her forever from the orphans of the Sisters of Clemency; little innocents, bundled off to an unknown fate in a farmer’s cart. She had prayed every night and each Sunday at church for Kathy Squires, Johnny Dean, the twins Megan and Amy and her dear lost friend, Michael Wilson.

Snowflakes melted on her nose as she watched people trudging along. For her, a safe shelter awaited in the salon. For many, there was only hardship and poverty this Christmas.

On her return, she shook off her cape and took her place behind the counter.

Every shelf was now replenished by this morning’s delivery from the Tobacco Dock wholesalers. Paying their account from her profits had seemed like a dream come true.

‘No,’ Ettie said aloud as she hung a sprig of holly from the frame of the portrait. ‘Not a dream, but the answer to a prayer.’ Her eyes lifted to Rose Benjamin, now the occupier of the space where the three-hand illustration had once hung. ‘Thank you,’ Ettie murmured, her eyes locking with the blue gaze of the young woman who resembled so distinctly the countenance of her only son.

Rose was now her daily companion and mentor. With Rose’s image dominating the salon, Ettie greeted her customers in a confident manner. She had memorized a new speech and was determined to deliver it before the customer could turn tail and run.

‘Good morning,’ she would welcome, positioning herself directly below the imposing portrait. ‘On behalf of Mrs Rose Benjamin and her son, Lucas, the salon welcomes you. I am honoured to act as representative for the family.’ Proudly she would indicate the certificate she had mounted and framed on the glass cabinet.

This was a startling event, even for regular customers. There had been many occasions when a jaw or two had fallen open and refused to close. But Ettie was relentless. For it was sink or swim, a decisive profit or a humiliating loss.

‘On closer inspection,’ she would continue, ‘you will see the document is signed by dukes and archdukes of the kingdom, clerics and lords, politicians and celebrities. Our ranges of tobaccos are unparalleled. And of course, we are proud to stock this silver, engraved fob watch cutter.’ She would then take out a small box