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

Then there was Michael Wilson, the most unruly and disobedient orphan of them all. A year older than Ettie, he was a rebel. All his young life he had lived off his wits. At first, he refused to even look at a book or hold a pencil. And, as for a bible or a catechism, he would declare them poisonous.

But Ettie had patiently appealed to his better nature. She found this in his love for adventure stories; of Daniel who was thrown into a den of lions. Or, Noah who defied a flood and David who had conquered a giant.

‘Can’t be true,’ Michael had at first argued. ‘A lion would eat you in one gulp. You’d never get all those animals on a boat. It would sink. And a giant would crush you under his foot.’

‘Believe what you like,’ replied Ettie, unoffended. ‘God gave these men special strength. There are women, too. Like Joan of Arc who fought in battle, as brave as any man. Look, here’s a picture of her wearing armour and sitting astride a horse.’ She showed him the pages of the old and musty book. Like all the books that had stood on the convent’s library shelves for many years.

Michael had studied the image with interest. Ettie knew that she had gained his approval. From that moment on, she read him stories of heroic action and adventure. One thing led to another and Michael decided to learn to read in order to investigate for himself.

Ettie came back to the present as Sister Patrick examined the caps and wimples.

‘Not a crease among them,’ she congratulated. ‘What would I do without you?’

Ettie habitually answered, ‘You won't ever have to, Sister Patrick. I'll always be here.’

Mostly Sister Patrick’s response was the same, too. ‘I pray to Our Blessed Lady that you will.’ But today, the nun's face clouded. She fiddled with her spectacles and played nervously with the wooden rosary looped at her waist. ‘Ettie, come away to the dining room. It’s time we talked.’

Chapter 2

‘Have I done something wrong?’ Ettie enquired.

‘No, child. But the sooner you learn the truth the better.’

Ettie hurried after the small, squat figure striding over the convent’s stone floors. Finally, they reached the dining room. All the long wooden tables and benches were permanently set with cutlery, mugs and pitchers of water for the nuns' simple meals.

Ettie kept this room as clean as a new pin. Sweeping the stone flags, polishing the table and lighting the fire on cold winter mornings was another labour of love. Once breakfast was over, Ettie and two young women employed from the local village would clean the children's dormitories and tend to the sick.

Sister Patrick sat down on one of the benches. Ettie felt anxious. The vast room echoed with an eerie silence. The strong smell of wax polish wafted up into the air. A smoky haze from the fire curled around the roof's lofty ceilings.

It was late on a winter's afternoon and Ettie moved restlessly. The boys and girls would be waiting for her. She loved her little friends and they loved her. For they all knew from life's experience what it was like to be unloved.

But Sister Patrick was in no hurry to let her go. ‘Ettie, nothing in life is permanent, so?’

A little shiver went down Ettie's spine. ‘No, Sister Patrick. Nothing lasts forever. Except heaven.’

‘Heaven is our eternal home,’ Sister Patrick agreed. ‘But in this life, we are in the hands of the Good Lord.’ The nun's tongue slipped nervously over her dry lips. ‘We must accept our fate. The bishop has given us a directive.’

Ettie sat up. This new bishop who had replaced the old one, was very important. When he visited, he arrived in a shiny cab pulled by a fine black horse. A special rug was produced for him to stand on; even Mother Superior knelt down and kissed the ring on his finger.

‘Rome can no longer support us,’ explained Sister Patrick. ’And there are many repairs to be done. The windows are all broken. There are leaks in the roof of the school house.’

Ettie wondered why this was important. ‘We catch the drips in pails,’ she reminded the nun.

‘Those drips are becoming waterfalls,’ Sister Patrick objected. ‘The chapel needs attention as well. Sure, the big bell is so rickety it’s about to fall from its tower.’

‘Can’t it be tied with rope?’ asked Ettie innocently.

The nun smiled sadly. ‘Ah, if only the sisters had your youth! We should do a great deal more than we do now.’

Ettie rarely thought about the age of the nuns. They all looked, well, just like nuns. There was perhaps, Sister Francis who walked with the aid of a stick. And Sister Bernadette who sat in a chair most of the day muttering her prayers in French. But now, Ettie realized, there were very few younger faces.

‘Already Sister Catherine has left for the motherhouse in Belgium,’ Sister Patrick added. ‘Soon Sister Enuncia will follow.’

Ettie swallowed. ‘Then who will teach the children?’

The nun heaved a sigh. ‘Sad it is, Ettie, but they too must go.’

Ettie felt a lump grow large in her throat. ‘But where?’

A tender smile touched the nun’s lips. ‘We must pray for guidance.’

‘But …’

Sister Patrick put a finger to her lips. ‘Quiet, now, Ettie. The problem is that we, the Sisters of Clemency, have lost our patrons over the years. The old bishop took no interest in money. He was a good man but only wanted to save souls. He loved his orphans and thought God would provide. But unfortunately, we are lost without patronage.’

Ettie remembered the wealthy gentry arriving in their fine carriages who once attended Mass in the chapel. But as the East End of London grew poorer, their visits declined. Yet she had been taught that God was loving and merciful. Surely, He would save the orphanage?

‘God helps those who help themselves, doesn’t He?’ Ettie boldly protested. ‘We