Hauntings and Humbug: A Steampunk Christmas Carol

3 The Ghost of Christmas Past

I woke to the chime of the clock. Through the narrow slits of my eyes, I could see it was one o’clock.

One o’clock.

But if it was so early, why was it so bright in the room?

Then, I heard it.

Somewhere in the room, I heard a soft giggle.

My eyes flinging wide open, I leaped to my feet only to find myself face to face with…a fairy. Before me, in a ball of glowing golden light, was a fairy made entirely of metal. Her clockwork wings fluttered. Giggling, she put her bronze hands on her hips and looked me over.

“Why, Ebony. You look positively mystified. Don’t you recognize me?”

I did. I had made the tiny fairy woman for my daughter, Maisie. And while the creation I’d made did have wings that fluttered, it had had never flown nor spoken. But I would recognize that tiny face anywhere. With her tipped nose, pouty lips, and pointy ears, this was the fairy I’d created. My daughter had loved her.

“Yes,” I whispered.

The fairy giggled then spun in a circle. A cloud of glimmering golden dust followed her. “How delightful. Very well then. Let’s get going. Hop on,” she said, motioning to the corner of the room.

When I turned to look, I spotted the clockwork carousel horse from the workshop standing in front of the fireplace. It pawed its foot and blinked its emerald-green eyes. Colorful streamers hung from its mane. The embezzlements on the saddle and bridle glimmered like the day I’d finished it.

“This is a dream,” I whispered.

“It is?” the fairy said. “I didn’t know that. I thought Marley told you. Three spirits will visit you tonight. I am the first of those three. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Now, come,” the fairy said, then flew to the carousel horse and settled in on its head.

My hands shaking, I followed.

It’s just a dream. This is all a dream.

I said nothing more but approached the horse. The creation turned and looked at me, more alive than it had ever been in my workshop, but it was my creation all the same. I set my hand on the horse’s nose. It whinnied and threw back its head. Moving carefully, I slipped my foot into the stirrup then slid on.

“All right!” the fairy called with a laugh. “Let’s go!”

With a wave of her arms, the fairy sprinkled pixie dust on the horse and me. I gasped when the clockwork pony took off, galloping around the room. And then, turning, it headed toward the window.

“Wait,” I called.

Throwing my arms up, I winced as the horse raced toward the window. But there was no shattering of glass. We’d simply glided through the pain and out into the night’s sky. Prancing in the air above the rooftops of London as light snow fell, the horse moved as if by magic.

“That way,” the fairy called, pointing. “Mayfair.”

The horse turned in that direction.

I was dreaming.

This was all a dream.

The horse galloped across the sky, finally slowing down as we reached Mayfair. I hadn’t been in the area in years, not since the fire that had burned my family’s home to the ground, taking my parents along with it.

But as we approached my old neighborhood, my breath caught in my throat. The block in which my parents’ townhouse had sat was still intact. All the houses were fine. Not a hint of fire to be seen. And there, on the corner, with golden light pouring from the windows, was my old home.

“What is this?” I whispered.

The fairy fluttered, then alighted on my shoulder. “I told you. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. And this, Ebony Kenworth Scrooge, is your past. Welcome home.”

The carousel horse raced toward the parlor window.

Once more, the pony slipped through the window as if there were nothing there. It came to a stop in the massive old parlor of my childhood home. The clockwork creation snorted, pawing its foot.

“All right, off we go,” the fairy said, then zipped away, flying toward the Christmas tree. “Oh my, how delightful,” she called, flying in circles all around the evergreen. “What a great new fashion. But it’s not trimmed yet,” the fairy said, setting her hands on her hips as she studied the tree.

“Ebbie, Blanche, come here, my darlings. It’s time,” a voice called from the foyer.

I froze.

I would recognize my mother’s voice anywhere.

Before I had a moment to speak, to move, my mother turned the corner and entered the parlor. Her hands were loaded down with candles, bows, and other sparkly ornaments. She was wearing the red-and-green striped holiday dress she loved, her dark hair pulled up with a red ribbon.

Mother walked toward me.

“Mama,” I whispered.

But then, Mother stepped through me. A feeling, like a cold draft, wafted over me. Mother shivered.

“James, ask Master Fallon to add another log to the fire. There’s a chill in the parlor.”

“I’ll see to it myself,” my father called, entering the room just behind Mother. As he crossed the room, he fussed with his pipe. Like Mother, he never looked at me. It was as if I weren’t there.

I turned and looked at this Christmas tree. “I remember this day,” I told the fairy. “This was the year we had our first Christmas tree.”

“It was a very special Christmas,” the fairy agreed.

“Ebbie, Blanche? Are you coming?” Mother called once more.

I heard the thunder of feet on the steps.

“Careful on the stairs,” Father called, his voice muffled as he attempted to keep his pipe perched between his lips while adding another log to the fire.

Mother chuckled at him.

“Mama,” I said, stepping close to her once more.

“She can’t see you,” the fairy said. “These are events taking place in your past, Ebony. You can see them, but they can’t see you.”

Rowdy laughter and the sound of thundering feet reached the parlor when, a moment later, my sister and I turned the corner. Both of us breathless, we paused to breathe then squealed when we saw what mother was holding.

“Oh, Ebbie,” Blanche gushed. “It’s time to decorate the tree,” she said, tugging on my arm.

I stared at my sister. Her golden curls bounced, the mirth exuding from her in the same way it did with my niece, Fawn, who looked every bit like her mother.

“Blanche,” I whispered, watching my sister rush past.

But then my eyes went to the nine-year-old version of myself. Laughing, my lips and cheeks red, I was like Snow White, a merry, pretty thing, quite unlike the ashen face that stared back at me in the mirror these days.

“Ebbie, since you are always so careful, you place the glass balls,” Mother said, handing me a box of red-and-gold ornaments. “And, Blanche, you can add the ribbons while your father and I place the candles in their holders.”

“We can light them, though, can’t we?” Blanche asked.

Mother chuckled lightly. “With help,” she said, then winked at the nine-year-old version of me.

Blanche, who was notoriously clumsy, would have set the whole tree on fire had Mother let her do it on her own. But even as I thought it, a knot formed in my stomach. Fire would one day reach this house. Later, the marshals told me that they believed a fire had started in the attic during the night. It had filled the house with smoke. Before anyone realized what was happening, the entire block was aflame.

Blanche and I, both newly married and living in our own homes, had not been there at the time. Father and Mother had never risen from their beds. The smoke, they told us, had taken them. Their charred bodies had been found in their bedchamber.

I had just turned nineteen that Christmas. The Christmas fire had taken both of my parents from me.

Shaking myself from the memory, I turned and looked at the scene before me once more.

The four of us worked together, trimming the tree in unison. I watched as my father and mother smiled gently at one another. How in love they had been. Their loving gazes went to Blanche and me. In this house, everything had been good. Everything had been right, even on the worst of days, and at the hardest of times, this place had been filled with love. I had almost forgotten the feeling.

“I remember this day,” I told the fairy. “I remember when…” My eyes went to the scene once more in time to see Blanche, who was reaching on her tiptoes to place a red bow, stumble into the tree.

“Blanche,” Father called, reaching out for her. He managed to catch her before she fell, but not before one of the red-and-gold ornaments slipped from the branch and fell to the ground.

The ornament broke into pieces. The inside of the ball had been silvery, reflective. It caught the firelight.

Blanche burst into tears. “I’m sorry. Ebbie, Mama, I’m sorry,” Blanche cried, her tears coming quickly and easily.

“It’s all right,” I told her. “It was an accident. And look how pretty it is on the inside. If you hadn’t broken it, we never would have seen how beautiful it is within,” I said, then bent to pick up the broken pieces.

“Let me help,” Blanche said, turning to grab the broken glass.

Before any of us could stop her, she reached down and touched a broken piece, cutting her finger.

“Ah.” She let out a little yell, pulling her hand back. Blood slipped down the side of her finger.

“Girls. Here. Let me,” Father said, motioning for us to get back.

“Take Blanche to the kitchen. Ask Missus Marksen to wash and bind the cut,” Mother told me.

“But the tree,” Blanche said. “We didn’t light the candles yet. Don’t light them without me, Mama.”

“No. We won’t. Now, go with your big sister,” Mother said, then motioned for me to take Blanche from the room.

My arm wrapped around Blanche’s, I led her away.

In my spirit form, I trailed along behind my younger self, listening as I whispered to my sister. “It’s all right, Blanche. It was just an accident.”

“You aren’t mad?”

“At you? Never. We’re sisters.”

“I love you, Ebbie.”

“I love you too,” I said, kissing my sister on the top of her head.

They headed out of the room and into the foyer. I tried to follow as they disappeared down the hall, but something blocked me, preventing me from leaving.

“You really loved your sister,” the fairy said, floating close to me.

I nodded, willing the tears in my eyes to stay where they were.

“What happened to her?”

“When Fawn was born… she died.”

“Fawn is her only child?”

I nodded mutely.

“And your parents are gone too?”

Again, I nodded. “There was a fire on Christmas. The house burned… They didn’t make it.”

The fairy set her little metal hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. How like your sister your niece looks. Just like her.”

She was right. Fawn really did look just like Blanche.

“Well, we thought she’d burn the house down. A little cut is a relief,” Father told Mother as he deposited the broken glass into the waste bin. Returning the equipment to the broom cupboard, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Mother’s waist, kissing her on the neck.

“Happy Christmas, Missus Kenworth,” he told her.

“Happy Christmas,” she replied, turning to kiss my father.

As I stood there watching, the image of my parents—and the room, the Christmas tree, the whole house—began to fade.

“Wait,” I whispered. “Where are they going?”

“Come on. It’s time to go,” the fairy said, motioning to the carousel horse.

“But…”

“Come on, Ebbie. Hop on,” the fairy said, flying over to sit on the horse’s head.

I frowned at her. “Don’t call me Ebbie,” I said then slipped on the horse.

She laughed. “All right, Ebony. Hold on!” the fairy called. And once more, she tossed her sparkling glitter over us. The horse turned and headed out into the night’s sky once more.

I closed my eyes. The cool, winter wind caressed my face. The pain of what I had lost felt like a stone in my stomach. My whole family was gone. They had all just disappeared on me. I was an orphan and alone.

No. Not alone. There was Fawn.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed we were headed across the river.

“No,” I said, seizing the metal reins of the horse. “No. Not there. I don’t want to go there.”

“Go where?” the fairy asked brightly.

“You know where. I want to wake up. Don’t take me there. I want to wake up.”

“How can you wake up? This isn’t a dream. Now, hold on,” the fairy said as we gently coasted down toward a small, crooked house situated on the edge of town. As the horse glided in, my old shepherd, who’d been running around in the snow in the back yard, looked up and barked.

“Allister,” I called to the dog. Chasing the pony, he ran to the door and scratched to be let in.

A moment later, Tom appeared. “Come along, mangy beast,” he called merrily.

The carousel horse entered the house through the upstairs window.

“I want to wake up,” I repeated once more. “Let me wake up.”

“Don’t you want to see her?”

“No. No, I don’t. Let me wake up.”

But it was too late. Already, the horse had come to a stop in an old, familiar room. It was the smell more than anything that caught me off guard. Her smell. It permeated the place. And then, I heard the laughter.

“And then the little kitty climbed higher and higher and higher until she was sitting on the Queen’s head!” a younger version of me called merrily.

“What’s this? A kitten on my head?” I said in a regal voice.

Switching my tone to the deep baritone of a porter, I said, “Why yes, Your Majesty, wearing a cat on your head is in fashion. Very French.”

Elevating my voice one more, I replied. “Indeed? Then fetch me a tabby. It’s better for my coloring.”

At that, Maisie laughed and laughed and laughed.

I stared at myself and my daughter. We were sitting in the bed playing together. I looked like a different person. My cheeks were red, my skin glimmering with life. There was light behind my eyes, even if there were rings of worry underneath. While she was still with me, I still had some sparkle.

“When was this?” the fairy asked.

“Two days before Christmas,” I answered. “She was barely three.”

“Oh, look. I’m there too!” the fairy said, pointing to the statue sitting beside Maisie’s bed. I’d created the small, clockwork fairy to sit on a mushroom. Her wings wagged without ceasing. I had yet to become the tinkerer I was now, adept in working with analytical engines, ethics boards, and hagstone enhancements. Back then, making the clockwork fairy’s wings flap had been enough to evoke magic.

Maisie sighed with tiredness, then wiggled low under her covers. “It really was very kind of Father Christmas to bring me this kitten early,” she said, clutching the stuffed animal to her chest. She reached out and touched the fairy’s toes. “Goodnight, little fairy.”

I stared at my child. She was just a wisp of a thing. Her eyes were sunken, her skin taut. The illness had eaten her alive from the inside. They had told me it was just a matter of days, which was why I had given her the kitten early. I had known in my heart that she wouldn’t make it to Christmas.

Lying down beside her, I held my daughter tight. “Do you like the kitten?” I whispered, brushing the curls from her forehead.

She nodded, then yawned.

Staring at the younger version of myself holding my daughter, I approached the bed. My legs shaking, I went to the end of the bed and sat down, watching the scene. My stomach felt sick. “Hold her tight. Hold her so tight,” I whispered to myself.

“Mummy,” Maisie whispered. “I made you a Christmas present. Would it be okay if I gave it to you now?”

The moment she asked, I knew that she knew.

“Of course.”

Maisie turned in bed and reached under her mattress, pulling out a small package wrapped in a scrap of cloth, which she handed to me.

Moving carefully, I unwrapped it.

“Quickly. Don’t dawdle,” Maisie told me with a laugh.

“All right,” I said then pulled out the present. Inside was a necklace made from buttons strung on a piece of twine.

“Oh, my goodness!” I exclaimed. “The jewels of Egypt!”

Maisie laughed. “No, Mummy, I made it.”

“You made this?”

“I did.”

“Why, it’s so beautiful.”

“Here, let me put it on you,” she said. We both sat up, and Maisie slipped the necklace over my head. “Perfect. I made it myself. Just like you, I make pretty things.”

“Yes, you do, my dearest. I love it very much. I’ll never take it off.”

“Never?”

“I promise.”

Sitting at the end of the bed, I touched my chest. Underneath the folds of my gown, I could feel the buttons. I had kept my promise to my daughter.

Maisie yawned tiredly.

“Why don’t you and kitten get some sleep? It’s been a very long day,” I told my daughter, settling her back into bed.

“Yes,” she said, already half-asleep. As it was, she slept most of the day these days. Even the simplest of exertions fatigued her. “Mummy, be sure to get the kitten some milk if she cries for it tonight.”

“Of course.” Rising, I tucked her in then placed a kiss on her head. “Goodnight, my love.”

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Does… Does Father Christmas visit the little children in heaven?”

Beside me, the fairy gasped.

I watched through unshed tears as the younger version of myself forced a smile. “Of course. He finds good children wherever they may be.”

Maisie smiled. “I’m glad. Goodnight, Mummy. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said, kissing her once more. I turned then, and as I went, I saw that my hand was covering my mouth, holding back the sobs that wanted to escape my lips. But I never let her see me cry. Never. I wanted her to have nothing but love and light until her final days.

The younger version of me fled the room.

After the ghost of myself had left, I approached the bedside and looked down at my daughter. She had closed her eyes, her long lashes lying on her cheeks. I reached out to touch her, to push away a wild curl, but my hand passed through. When Maisie shivered, I pulled my hand away. My heart felt like it was being clenched in a vice.

“She really was such a pretty thing,” the fairy said, hovering over Maisie.

“She died overnight on Christmas Eve. She never saw Christmas morning.”

“Why did she die?” the fairy asked.

“Her father… He was supposed to be watching her. Maisie fell into a pond. She survived, but she took a fever. After the fever abated, she was so weak. It was like something was eating her up from the inside. She could barely get out of bed. She just slowly wasted away.”

“And her father?”

“It was his fault. He wasn’t watching her. The children were all ice-skating, but he was drinking and talking with the other men. He didn’t even know that she’d gone under the ice until the other children started screaming.”

“Where were you?”

“Working.”

“Working,” the fairy repeated.

I glared at her. “Don’t say it like that. My husband was a lazy creature. I had to work. He only had to watch her for two hours that day, keep her safe. There was a winter carnival. Marley and I were working. But I should have been there,” I whispered. “If I had been there, she never would have been on that thin ice.”

“Hmm,” the fairy mused.

“Sweet baby,” I whispered, looking at the tiny figure in her big bed. There was a wisp of a smile lingering on her lips. “My sweetest one. Mummy misses you so much,” I said, tears slipping down my cheeks.

From downstairs, I heard shouting and the sound of breaking glass. My voice and Tom’s rose to a terrible crescendo.

“Bloody hell, we’ll wake her.” I went to the door to listen. I didn’t remember Tom and I fighting that night. In the days before Maisie’s death, everything had been very, very silent.

“I know you blame me,” Tom shouted.

I stilled, feeling like someone had poured cold water over me.

No.

This wasn’t the Christmas Maisie died. It was Christmas the year following.

Gasping, I turned and looked back at the little bed.

The image behind me began to fade. The cheery glow of the candle, Maisie in her bed, everything a picture of softness and warmth began to dim as a greyish-blue pall began to take over the room.

“No. Maisie,” I said, stepping toward the bed.

Right before the darkness enveloped the entire scene, taking Maisie with it, my little girl sat up in her bed and looked right at me.

“Mummy,” she said with a smile, then she blew me a kiss.

“Maisie,” I whispered, reaching out for her. But then the image faded. A moment later, the scene was replaced by the dingy darkness of an empty bed. The whole world faded to hues of blueish grey.

“I do blame you. Of course, I blame you. You were drunk. You weren’t watching her. If you had been watching her, she never would have fallen into that water. You were supposed to look after her,” I screeched from below.

Tom.

Anger pulsing through my veins, I turned and headed downstairs.

“Ebbie,” the fairy called, fluttering along behind me.

“Don’t call me Ebbie.”

“It’s time to go now,” the fairy said,

“That son of a bitch. I want to see the look on his face one more time,” I said through gritted teeth.

I emerged into the kitchen in time to watch a haggard version of myself, my bun pulled out into wild strands, hurl a plate across the room at my husband. It was Christmas once more, but there was no sign of it anywhere in the house. No trimmings or treats to be found, just more of the terrible blue-grey pall that hung over the house.

“Ebbie,” Tom pleaded. “Please. I lost her too.”

“And who is to blame?”

“I…”

“You! It was your fault she died! You. You!”

“I… Me and the lads were making a plan. It seemed rude not to drink. It was just me and the boys talking. Ebbie, we’ve been through this a million times. I know I should have been paying more attention. Don’t you know I regret it every day? I was stupid. Stupid.”

I hurled another plate at him. “Our child is dead because you were stupid.”

“I’m confused,” the fairy said. “Why did you marry such a bad man?”

“He wasn’t bad when I married him. He was charming and fun. He did drink from time to time, but he was never lost in the bottle. Not at first. But after Maisie was born, he drank more and worked less.”

“And after Maisie died?”

“He drank every day. All day. And never worked. And then…”

“And then?”

I pointed back to the scene.

“To hell with you. To hell with you, Ebbie. I loved her too. I won’t stay here and listen to you blame me every day of my life,” Tom said then picked up a case that was sitting by the door.

“Where are you going?” I seethed.

“Away. Away from you,” he said, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

I grabbed a teapot off the table and hurled it toward the door. It shattered into a thousand pieces. “Don’t come back! Don’t you ever come back,” I screamed in his wake.

I stared at myself. Wild-eyed, breathing hard, my hair a mess, I was standing in the center of the kitchen staring at the door. It wasn’t until you could hear the sound of the gate at the end of the lane banging shut that I collapsed, weeping, onto the floor.

“Come back,” I whispered through sobs. “Come back.”

“But he didn’t come back, did he?” the fairy whispered.

“No,” I said flatly, staring at the miserable version of myself lying there, a broken thing.

“What a terrible thing to happen on Christmas,” the fairy said with a soft sigh.

I stared at myself, alone, crying in the middle of the room.

“I want to go back now,” I whispered. “Please don’t show me anymore.”

“All right,” the fairy replied.

The fairy led me outside. There, the carousel pony was waiting. I slipped on.

The fairy whispered into the horse’s ear. A moment later, the pony took off in a trot. Allister appeared once more, racing alongside the pony and me. Stupid, giddy dog. He was happy to chase anything, even spirits.

“Look,” the fairy said. “He can see us. Animals are very smart.”

Smiling weakly, I looked at my old companion—knowing that he too would die that year. I hadn’t had it in me to get another dog after that.

The carousel horse leaped into the air and flew back toward the flat I lived in now, back across the river.

But as we flew, I spotted Tom making his way down the road toward the airship towers.

“What happened to him?” the fairy asked, both of us watching his hurried steps.

“I don’t know. I had someone look for him. He took an airship to India. No one knows where he went after that.”

“You suppose he’s still alive?”

“You would know better than me, spirit.”

But her question was one that plagued me to no end. Was Tom still alive? Would he ever come back? How could he just abandon me like that? I was angry. I blamed him. But I needed him too. I needed him. He was the only thing I had left of her.

I turned away, closing my eyes. An icy wind blew on my face, cooling the hot tears slipping down my cheeks.

“Ebbie,” the fairy whispered.

“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry for everything you lost. But now, you need to wake up,” she said.

“What?”

I felt a strange jolt, like all my muscles spasmed at once, and I fell to the floor as the clock on the mantle chimed one o’clock. I was in my bedroom in my flat once more. I sat in a heap on the floor in front of the fireplace.

A dream.

A terrible dream.

I lay my head down on the floor and stared into the fire.

“Maisie,” I whispered. “Maisie, Mummy loves you,” I said then slowly slipped back to sleep.