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

But Ettie did not care about the bangers and spuds. She did not care about anything.

Chapter 43

Since Ettie had no money of her own to pay the burial costs, she used what she had stored away since their visit to The Old Lady. To keep things straight, she wrote the expenses in the accounts, just as Lucas had taught her.

He had left no instructions on the matter, though Ettie had searched the house from top to bottom, as Terence suggested. Lucas had neither spoken of death in any respect nor where his parents might be buried. No legal representative was ever named, or parson or vicar, or church or chapel. She knew the finer details of his life and the tobacco that was his passion. But with regard to death and dying, Lucas it seemed, had denied its existence.

Three pounds and ten shillings were dispersed to the beneficiaries. Ettie made two requests of the officials; the first that Lucas Benjamin’s last resting place might be amongst trees and pleasant greenery. The second, that if ever transported to England, the remains of his wife and son might join him.

Ettie’s hopes were realized as the morning dawned with a soft breeze that blew bonfire smoke and crumpled brown leaves through the pretty wilderness spilling with wild flowers under the autumn trees. At least, Ettie thought, this miniature garden would be approved of by Lucas. He had written so beautifully of the mountains. He would surely approve of this sweet little dell?

An unknown vicar conducted the service, remembering, at the graveside, to include the family names and brief history of the tobacconist of Silver Street. This stilted information, Ettie reflected, had been prepared from the notes that she had provided, in the absence of any other.

The event attracted few mourners, though notices had been posted in the newspaper. The gentlemen whom Lucas had so loyally served, the acquaintances he had made and even Florence and Thomas – none of them attended.

The coffin arrived, supported by four strong shoulders, one pair belonging to Terence, bareheaded, and dressed entirely in black to befit the occasion.

The butcher played his part with elegance and helped to lower the coffin into the ground. When freed from its tethers, Ettie stepped forward to cast in a handful of earth from the gravedigger’s mound. The rich, moist soil lay fresh on the polished wood surface.

Tears slipped gently from her eyes onto her Sunday best coat; the same coat she had last worn to visit The Old Lady. It was an innocent, happy time when she had believed the tobacconist of Silver Street, his wife Clara and their child, were soon to return from the towering mountains of Switzerland, to England.

The day after the funeral, Ettie coaxed herself into the salon, intending to remove the notices that still hung from the door. But her fingers stilled as she drew the blinds.

Her heart was not in it. To destroy the evidence of the tobacconist’s life and death was beyond her.

Instead she took up the duster and began to clean the neglected room. Who would take care of these same shelves, polish the glass counter and keep Lucas’s secret safe behind the wooden panel, she wondered, when as Terence had warned her, the business was sold and she was dismissed from her duties? Who would care for the salon then?

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a tap on the door, where an elderly man stood, peering in. He was dressed formally in a long, dark coat and black necktie and carried a portmanteau.

Was this some distant relative, she wondered? Or a business colleague who had just discovered the tragedy?

Quickly she left her dusting and unlocked the salon door.

‘Good day to you,’ he said and removed his tall hat. Casting a beady eye over her shoulder he enquired, ‘Am I addressing one Miss Henrietta O’Reilly?’

‘Yes, sir, that is me.’ Ettie could not put an age on him, but thought that his salt and pepper dark hair, silvering at his whiskers might put him in Terence’s category. He was not very tall and quite stout and somewhat out of breath as he paused there.

‘I am Mr Pike, a representative of the attorneys at law, Shingle and Dover.’ His plump cheeks quivered a little but his small, dark button eyes were keen and fixed on Ettie. ‘I have some business to conduct in regard to the late Mr Lucas Benjamin.’

Ettie stood back, alarmed. ‘But Mr Pike, I am just an assistant. I mean, I was …’

‘Indeed, I am acquainted with your circumstances, Miss O’Reilly, through correspondence with your late employer. May I come in? Better to be seated,’ said Mr Peck, increasing Ettie’s concern.

‘As you wish, sir,’ agreed Ettie hesitantly.

She locked the door and led him along the passage to the kitchen. After the funeral she had closed off the other rooms, draping sheets across the furniture and drawing the drapes.

‘Please take a seat,’ she offered as Mr Pike opened his case. He placed a number of papers on the table, seeming a little uncomfortable amongst all the cooking paraphernalia.

Ettie chose a chair at one end, Mr Pike the other. An offer of refreshment was not made, nor did the attorney request any.

‘First,’ he began, locking together his fingers, ‘my condolences on what must have been an unexpected outcome to your employment here. The steps you took on your employer’s behalf, post-mortem, are commendable.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Ettie curiously. ‘But how did you know Mr Benjamin has passed away?’

‘Once the death certificate is signed and funeral notices posted, the bank is impelled to act in a case like this.’

Ettie looked blankly at the little man. ‘In a case like this?’ she repeated.

‘I am aggrieved to say a demand for repayment of the substantial debt incurred before the late person’s death, has been issued.’

Ettie swallowed, unable to understand this statement. ‘Sir, there cannot be a debt. With