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

was April and even the few sparse trees in Silver Street had begun to bud. But Ettie rarely strolled under them. Her priority was to make up for the lost week and invest in new stock. Therefore, she opened for business at seven each morning except on Sunday and closed at seven in the evenings. The gentlemen from the city approved, for now they didn’t have to rush from their clubs and could dally a little longer with their friends. The young working men would call on their way to their offices and sometimes afterwards, too.

By the end of the month, Ettie had repaid four pounds of the outstanding debt. With the help of Mrs Buckle, all the blue cloths had been replaced at minimal cost. Fortunately, trade was so brisk that she was able to meet the next order from Tobacco Dock on time. But this didn’t ease the guilt that still remained with her daily. She was filled with foreboding at the prospect of making a confession to Lucas. Might he forgive her when the full story was told? Would Clara think she was to be trusted enough to help with the baby?

These were the worries that Ettie tried to put to one side. At Sunday Mass she would pray to her mother for assistance. To Saint Jude that he might restore Lucas’s good favour and understanding. To the Blessed Virgin, to safeguard Clara and her child. And to the crucified Christ to forgive her for the sin she had committed in drinking the green fairy.

At night, she would dream once again of the great catastrophe of December. She would hear Lily’s harsh voice, and see the torn velvet cloths and empty till drawer. Sometimes Lucas would appear. His kind face and gentle eyes would be full of rebuke. His silence hurt far deeper than any spoken word. And Clara – Clara! She was absent from Ettie’s dreams. Ettie would wake, sweating and disturbed, feeling as though Clara had shunned her, refusing to allow her even one small glimpse of her newly born child.

It was on an early May morning, when an elegant horse-drawn brougham arrived outside. The damson-red carriage was decorated with shiny gold trimmings. The driver, clad in uniform, flat peaked cap and highly polished leather boots, jumped down and assisted his passenger out.

To Ettie’s surprise, the young woman made her way into the salon, leaving the driver to stand outside.

‘Good day,’ she said, smiling at Ettie. For all Ettie’s endeavours to increase the business, she had not expected the arrival of a female customer. And, one so young and lovely at that!

Lucas had told her the stores of the West End were sometimes favoured by wealthy women, in search of tobaccos for their fathers, brothers or husbands. But for a lady on her own to visit a Soho establishment was not generally advised. Though Lucas, somewhat biased, had insisted the day would come when Benjamin & Son. Salon of Quality Tobaccos would be a lady’s preferred tobacconist.

The young woman was pretty with bouncy fair curls that peeped out of her bonnet. Her large green eyes were spaced widely in her oval face and a silk bow was tied discreetly beneath her chin. The pale grey gown she wore flattered her slender curves. She carefully removed each finger of her gloves and leaned forward to inspect the contents of the glass cabinet.

‘I’m looking for a gift,’ she explained, ‘for my twin brother who is seventeen next week.’ She looked under her long lashes and whispered coyly, ‘I caught him smoking against Mama’s wishes. And thought I might tease him a little.’

Ettie roused herself sharply. ‘I think I can help you,’ she said at once and turned to the shelves behind her. She drew out three boxes and set them on the counter removing the lid of the first. ‘These fine cigarettes are made by the Carreras factory of Mornington Crescent – an established and trusted manufacturer.’

‘They look rather plain,’ decided her customer.

Ettie lifted the lid of the second box. ‘These are the purest of Cuban cigars found in stores like Robert Lewis of St James’s Street.’ A powerful odour drifted from the box and the young woman wrinkled her nose.

‘Quite interesting.’

Ettie moved to the third box. Slowly she revealed its contents. Two miniature snuff boxes with mother-of-pearl inlay and six pristine pipes lay on a bed of smooth raffia, their highly ornate bowls overshadowing their slim stems. Set in the centre, were a pair of miniature pipes, toy-like in their appearance.

‘The snuffs are popular,’ Ettie explained. ‘But so are the pipes. Being small, they can be discreetly hidden in a lady’s bag or man’s pocket.’

The young woman gasped. ‘Ingenious! Mama would definitely disapprove.’

Ettie lifted a dainty pipe, its bowl embellished with a briar rose and thorns. ‘And only seven shillings and sixpence halfpenny.’

‘Why, the cost of a parasol!’

‘The pipe is unrepeatable,’ Ettie replied quietly. ‘A parasol may be bought in dozens.’

The girl laughed. ‘Well said. Here, let’s see if the pipe will fit in my purse.’ She opened her dainty bag. Ettie placed it inside.

‘Perfect,’ said the girl, but then glanced at the snuffs. ‘But I am undecided.’

Ettie smiled. ‘Both are excellent choices.’

‘I’ve decided on the pipe,’ said the girl with a flourish of her hand. ‘And some of those rather boring cigarettes for my brother. Please wrap them separately. He shall have his silly smokes and I shall have my clay pipe and boast to my friends.’

Ettie thought how spirited this young woman was. Not at all afraid of breaking convention or offending a parent. But then, she reflected, to have so much wealth when young, must give a kind of confidence.

When she had her two parcels the customer paid and left with a gracious, ‘Goodbye. Perhaps, on another jaunt to Soho, I may look you up for a miniature snuff.’

Ettie followed her to the door and peeped out. To her surprise her customer paused on the cobbles and handed her driver the packages, gazing