Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance by Carol Rivers (classic english novels txt) 📕

them. Her legs felt as numb as wood. A tight band encircled her ribs. When she coughed, a sticky knot of green glue came into her throat.

Ettie began to feel light-headed. Memories came bursting into her mind like whirling dervishes; children she remembered from her wanderings, half-naked and freezing in the cold. Young women crying out for alms, their tortured bodies no longer saleable. Young men deformed by diseases of the muscle and lung. The aged, too sick or disabled to crawl to the warmth of a brazier fire.

She shook her head a little, yet still the visions attacked her. A fiery heat burned through her and she trembled violently. Closing her eyes, she finally slept. But soon the nightmares returned and there was Clara, claimed by her addiction. And Lucas! She saw as clearly as she had seen him then, his sweat-drenched body and the cavernous pouches beneath his sunken cheeks. She heard their cries for help as clearly as if they were lying beside her.

Ettie cried out, too. She was broken by their agony. She could not help them. For how could she even help herself?

Then, from out of the fog beneath the bridge, walked Rose. Her tall, stately figure so graceful and proud, that even the fog dared not block her path. Ettie tried to tell her about Lucas and Clara. They were there, in the darkness waiting … needing her help.

But Rose raised her finger gently. ‘Hush now, Ettie. I know.’

Ettie felt as though she was drenched in love; a peace that flowed through her as Rose bent close.

‘Buck up Ettie! Show the world your mettle.’ Her words were as clear as they had been at the salon.

‘I’m tired,’ Ettie whispered.

‘I’ll help you.’ Rose held out her hands. ‘Come home.’

Ettie began to cough, trying to resist the band that tightened around her heart. ‘But where?’ she murmured. ‘Where is home?’

‘I’ll show you the way,’ Rose beckoned.

But the night grew darker and colder. And suddenly Rose was gone, as though she had never been there. Desperation filled Ettie once more. A fit of coughing seized her. She fell forward, ejecting the poisonous bile from her mouth.

When the choking was over, she looked up to the perfect, velvet blue sky where a sea of stars glittered brightly above the earth. Towards heaven.

Ettie knew then, with a joyful certainty, that at last she was going home.

Chapter 68

The old man shifted uneasily, as if something had woken him from his dream. Though what the dream was about he could not say – only that he knew he must rouse and put on his clothes, the same working duffle and trousers that he had used to garden in for many years. They were patched in many places, but serviceable, and would do him until the end. Which, he felt, could not be far off.

He had reached his eightieth year. Passed it in fact. But here he was, still on this earth; a caretaker, a groundsman, a gardener and a grave digger. Just one grave, mind. And he visited her grave daily. He spoke to Sister Ukunda about old times; the orphanage and the Sisters of Clemency and the years he had spent in their service. But although he knew she listened, she never answered him back.

A good woman that.

Arthur hauled himself from the bed and pulled on his pants, grinning toothlessly at the fact that it would only be the Almighty who’d shift him from this spot. The bastard bishop had tried. And look where it got him. The nuns had tried. And look where it got them. The weather had tried. And almost succeeded last winter. And the coppers had tried. Just a little but not too much. Not to such a degree as to move him on.

He served their purpose. And his purpose was to care for this unholy lot of weeds and tangles that were fast becoming his greatest foe. Old bones did not make new ones. And the jingle-jangle of his aches and pains lately, told him that the land would win in the end. Out of them all, it would be nature the victor.

But so what? It was here he had spent a lifetime, assisting quietly in the background as the nuns did their very best to save humanity. Another smile lifted his white-whiskered jaw into a semblance of amusement. For hadn’t he done the very same of late? To the north of the plot lived Lofty, all five feet five of skin and bone. He’d escaped the debtors’ men a year ago and was still leading them a merry dance. His one companion was his horse, who, even older than Lofty himself, grazed down the weeds and brambles, and sometimes was harnessed to Arthur’s cart for a trip to the market. Camped by the southern wall, a hundred feet past the burned-down schoolroom, the gypsy was no hinderance.

Then there were the two imps. Well, what was he supposed to do about those? Couldn’t be more than six or seven. You could barely see ‘em in the day. Blink and you’d miss their shadows. But they were there alright. They could trap a rabbit all by themselves. He’d found the bones of fowl and fish, dead heads with eyeballs glaring up at you. Must’ve gone down to the wooden bridge and done a bit of fishing.

He’d caught them kipping in the long grass and up a tree and even in the cinders. They painted their faces black with the soot and tried to scare him. But, he’d whistle his way past and raised his hand in salute. They’d giggle like kids did, though whether girls or boys, he couldn’t tell. But they were happy to be free and he hoped they’d stay that way.

Arthur gulped down his breakfast, a crust of bread and crackle of bacon. He always put out the rind. And it was gone in a split second. But this morning, he only had mouldy cheese, so he carved off a sliver, grinned