Hauntings and Humbug: A Steampunk Christmas Carol

4 The Ghost of Christmas Present

When the clock on the mantel bonged out two o’clock, I rose from the wooden floor, feeling an ache in my back. Although I was not yet forty, my body felt twice its age. I slid toward the fireplace and gingerly set a log on the fire. The flames nipped at my fingers, but I snatched them back. I was about to place another log when I heard a strange noise coming from the downstairs of my townhouse. I paused to listen, thinking it was the neighbors. Then the sound came clearly: someone was playing the piano in my parlor.

My heart skipped a beat.

Marley had said I would be visited by three spirits.

It was either that or someone had broken into my house to play “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.”

Frowning, I rose. Grabbing my pistol and slipping it into my pocket, I tiptoed downstairs. The chandelier had been lit in the parlor. Someone was singing in a deep tenor, the music resonating throughout the house. And then I smelled…cookies. Not just cookies. I smelled bread, cakes, and more.

When I stepped into the parlor, I was startled to see the place was trimmed more elaborately than Buckingham. Everywhere I looked, garlands with red and gold ribbons, glass balls, and other ornaments were strung. On every flat surface were trays loaded with mountains of cookies and cakes. Candies and other sweets in glass jars were stuck into every nook and cranny of my small parlor. A massive Christmas tree stretched to the ceiling. Candles illuminated the tree, a brilliant silver star at the top. And hanging from the mantel were stockings with the names Ebony and Fawn sewn thereon.

But the most alluring thing in the room was the man sitting at the piano. Wearing a green-and-red kilt, a rich emerald green doublet, and a Highlander’s cap, the man gave me a smile as he finished the last bars of the song. He had deep, chocolate-brown hair and a broad chest. With a dramatic flourish, he danced his hands across the keyboard of my pianoforte then rose.

“Ebony Scrooge. Just look at you,” he said, opening his arms wide. He had a rich, Scottish accent and bright blue eyes. On his square jaw, he wore a neatly trimmed beard. I nearly panicked when I felt heat rise into my cheeks. While I hadn’t looked at a man since Tom had run off, I had always fancied a Highland lad. There was something about a Scot with a great barrel of a chest and fine legs that caught me off guard.

“Look at me, why?” I said, pulling myself together.

The man crossed the room then stepped close to me. Moving in a circle, he eyed me up and down.

“Why, I’ve never seen a sourer, more drab-looking apple in my entire life!” he said with a laugh.

Humiliated, I frowned at him.

“Play!” he called to the piano.

At once, the piano keys began dancing of their own volition. The man moved toward me, grabbed me by my waist and arm, and then pulled me into a spin, dancing me around the room.

“Come on, Ebbie. Where’s your mirth? It’s Christmas Eve, and as I hear it, you were once a charming dance partner.”

Feeling embarrassed, I pulled away. “Let go of me.”

But his words struck my heart. Once, long ago, Ebony Kenworth had been a mirthful girl who’d loved to dance.

“Ah. I see. Not the tune for you?” the man said, looking thoughtful. “Oh, no. That’s not it. I know the problem. You’re not dressed for the occasion. Look at you. You look like a pinched old maid. Let’s fix that,” he said, then snapped his fingers.

A moment later, I found myself dressed in a pretty red gown with embroidered holly berries and green leaves on the trim, my hair pinned up at the back, long curls hanging from my ears. I set my hand on my chest, feeling my beating heart. The corset squeezing me, I was dressed like a young girl who’d come out for her first season. I clasped my hand around the button necklace hanging from my neck. “What is this madness?” I demanded.

“The present, and I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Now, I can put you back into that drab, ripped work dress, but why in the hell would we do that? Look at you, lass. You’re like bloody Snow White. You’re beautiful. Come on, let’s go get a drink,” he said, then took my arm and led me into the dining room.

The moment we passed through the archway, however, everything changed. Rather than my own townhouse, I suddenly found myself standing in the parlor of Fawn and Charles’s home.

“What’s this?” I asked, looking around.

Fawn, Charles, and a number of other couples were gathered in my niece’s modest home. They were laughing merrily. A group was seated at one table playing a hand of whist. On the other side of the room, Charles was playing Christmas carols on the piano while some of the couples danced. A footman worked his way through the room, passing out wassail. Trays of sweets sat on the tables. The whole scene was causal to the point of improper but entirely merry.

“Who is ready to play Snapdragon?” Fawn cheerfully called as she appeared in the doorway, a kitchen maid following along behind her. The maid was pushing a cart on which there was a bowl filled with brandy and raisins.

The others in the room cheered, leaving behind their frivolities to join Fawn at the center of the room. A drum table had been cleared. Moving carefully, Fawn and the kitchen maid set the bowl of brandy onto the table.

“Don’t let Fawn light the raisins, or she’ll set the whole place on fire,” one of their friends called.

At that, the others laughed.

I smiled at my niece then turned to the spirit beside me. “She is clumsy. Just like her mother.”

“I love a game of Snapdragon,” the Scotsman said. “Don’t you, Ebbie? Oh, with your nimble hands, I bet you’re a quick one at this game.”

I smiled wistfully. “Once, perhaps.”

“But not now, right? There’s nothing good about Christmas, is there? Wasting time and money on frivolity. People would be wise to remember they’ll be hungry the next day. Won’t they?”

“Will you use my own words against me?”

He laughed. “Not at all, lass. Not at all. But once upon a time, you were a merry thing too. Just like your pretty niece. And I’m sure those harsh words of yours have nothing to do with all that rot and pain you feel deep inside you come every Christmas. Humbug indeed. Come, let’s watch,” he said, then pulled me toward the scene.

The revelers gathered around as the footman doused the lights. Only the fireplace and the candles on the Christmas tree illuminated the dim room.

“Everyone knows what to do?” Charles asked the others.

I remembered when Fawn had brought Charles to meet me. I had liked the young banker from the start. He had a sweet, merry spirit much in league with Fawn’s, and they were very much in love. Perhaps, too much in love. Being around them often served as a painful reminder of my desperately lonely state. In fact, spending time with Fawn was a constant reminder of everything I had lost: my parents, my sister, my daughter, my husband. Fawn was only three years younger than Maisie had been. The two of them would have been like sisters. Now, I only felt ghosts beside my sister’s daughter.

“Do we really need to put them in our mouths while they’re on fire?” one of the ladies asked.

Fawn laughed. “If you want to be a dragon!”

The others chuckled.

“And where did you learn Snapdragon, Fawn?” another lady asked.

“Ponders End,” Fawn replied, referring to the prestigious boarding school to which I had paid to send her after her father had died.

“Oh, don’t let Aunt Ebony find out about that,” the same girl answered. “She’ll demand her money back.”

I frowned at the girl.

Fawn giggled merrily. “Not at all. Aunt Ebony is resourceful, not miserly. How else could she afford to send me to such a wonderful place?”

“Wouldn’t she come tonight?” Charles asked Fawn.

Fawn sighed. “You know how it goes with her. I made her promise to come for tea tomorrow, though.”

“Well, it’s a pity she’s missing such fun,” Charles said. “And if not for her, we wouldn’t know this game. Everyone, let’s all go savage in Aunt Ebony’s name. Without her, Fawn never would have learned Snapdragon!”

At that, Charles lit the bowl of brandy.

Brilliant blue flames shot up from the dish.

“Ladies, watch your sleeves,” Charles called as he removed his jacket and rolled up his cuffs.

Fawn grinned at her husband. “For you, Aunt Ebony,” she said, then moving quickly, she jabbed her hand into the fiery concoction and pulled out a burning raisin. With the blue flame still flickering, she shoved the morsel into her mouth, giving her a temporary appearance of a dragon.

Laughing merrily, one by one, the others tried their hands at it.

Beside me, the spirit laughed. “How delightful. How delightful.”

I watched my niece. How sweet she was, how lively. Would Maisie have been like her? Would she and her own husband be here with these other young couples? What would my daughter have been like?

“All right, lassie. Shall we see about that drink now?” the spirit asked, turning to me once more. “I could use a brandy.” Entwining his arm in mine, the Scotsman led me away from the scene.

I paused a moment.

“What is it?”

“It’s just…they are so merry.”

“As were you, once.”

“What do I have to be merry about now?”

“That,” the spirit said, pointing to Fawn.

I frowned. He was right, but I hated to be reminded of it. “Let’s go,” I said, then turned toward the dining room.

“You know, Ebony, you’re still young yourself. And pretty to boot. Your life isn’t over. There is still time for you to—”

“If you know what’s best for you, Highlander, you should measure your next words very carefully.”

“Oh, aye, whatever you say,” the Scotsman said with a chuckle, then we stepped into the side parlor only to be immediately transported elsewhere.

I swayed, disoriented by the sudden rush. We were standing in the breezeway of a house. The spirit pushed open the door to reveal a small, humble home. A gaggle of children was crowded around a kitchen table, setting out plates as they chatted loudly. I eyed the children over. They were familiar-looking, but I couldn’t quite place them. But then, I saw him. Sitting by the fire, his leg wrapped in a splint, was Bailey Cratchit’s husband, Robert.

“Do you have the applesauce set out, Millie?” Robert called.

“Yes, Father.”

“Peter, get the bread. Your mother and Tim will be back any minute.”

“Of course, Father.”

“I’m sorry, children. I hate to see you do all this work yourself,” Robert said.

“What happened to that chap?” the spirit asked me.

“That’s Robert Cratchit, my assistant Bailey’s husband. He runs deliveries for the butcher, but the cart he drives turned over in the high snow, and he broke his leg.

“Must be hard for them, being they are such a large family. My word, how many children?” he asked, then counted. “One, two, three, four. My, my,” the Scotsman said with a naughty laugh as he elbowed me in the side. “Must be a lot of romance in the Cratchit home, wouldn’t you say, Missus Scrooge?”

“There are six children. And I wouldn’t know,” I said, forcing my cheeks not to redden at the innuendo.

“Where are the other child—“ the spirit began, but then the door opened.

Bailey entered, holding a platter on which there was a roasted chicken. She turned, stopping to help someone behind her. I gasped when I spotted Bailey’s son, Timothy. He was walking with a crutch and looked half the weight he had when I’d last seen him. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his skin was deathly pale.

Echoes of Maisie’s appearance shook me to my very core.

“Ah, here is another little one,” the Scotsman said. “My, he’s a wee lad. What’s ailing him?”

“I don’t know. Bailey told me he is an unwell child. Sickly from birth. But I don’t remember the crutch. He had a limp before,” I studied the boy’s legs. They looked more twisted than they had been. I watched as he struggled to reach a small stoop in the corner. Lowering himself, and wincing with pain, he sat down then set his crutch against the wall.

“Oh my goodness, it’s so late. I’m so very sorry. But here we have the chicken,” Bailey said. “But where is Martha?” Bailey asked, referring to her eldest daughter. With Fawn’s help, Bailey had found work for her eldest girl as a maid in the house of one of Fawn’s friends.

“She couldn’t come,” Robert said sadly. “She sent word from the big house. They couldn’t do without her tonight.”

“But…” Bailey began, the happy expression on her face deflating. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

“Surprise!” I heard a voice call from the back. Martha appeared holding a massive cake trimmed with icing and candied fruits.

“Martha,” Bailey exclaimed, crossing the room to kiss her daughter. “I’m so glad you’re here. Now, what is this?” she asked, looking at the cake.

“Missus Penny is teaching me how to bake. I hope to get a position in the kitchen. Missus Penny said I have a hand for it. I made this myself, and Lord and Lady Dearborne thought I did such a nice job, I should take it home for my family to enjoy. They are ever so thoughtful.”

“Mama,” a small voice called. Rudy, Bailey’s middle son, rushed across the room to hug Bailey. “Did you see Father Christmas out there?”

“Oh,” Bailey said, and I heard that odd catch in her voice. “No. But I’m certain he is making his rounds tonight.”

Bailey looked at her husband. The two exchanged a sad look.

They had gifts for the children, didn’t they?

“That’s neither here nor there. Now that your mother’s here, let’s feast,” Robert called.

Peter hurried to his father’s side and helped him to the table.

Martha finished organizing the food as Bailey went to fetch Timothy, who was still seated on his stoop. “Are you hungry?” Bailey asked him.

He shook his head.

“Will you eat for me? I need you to grow big and strong.”

He nodded then said, “Mummy. Did you see that man at the butcher’s shop? Did you see how he looked at me?”

I could tell from the impression on Bailey’s face that she knew what her child was talking about but didn’t want to say so.

“No, son. I didn’t.”

“He saw I was…broken.”

“Timothy—”

“No, Mummy, it’s all right. I think it’s a good thing. Tonight, maybe he will think of all the broken people in the world. Maybe he will pray for us, pray for all the broken ones so that all the broken things inside us heal and make us right again.”

“That’s a very kind thought, my dear. Very nice, indeed. Now, come. You must try Martha’s cake.”

“It did look good.”

“You must be sure to eat some, so she doesn’t feel offended.”

“All right.”

Bailey picked up the boy and set him on his stool by his father. The children worked quickly, filling their plates with the humble trimmings. Unlike the heaps of desserts and delights at Fawn’s house, the Cratchit’s barely had enough to feed the whole family. The one small chicken didn’t stretch far.

“What shall we cheer?” Bailey asked, raising her cup. She looked at her husband, who looked decidedly less than cheerful, but I could see he was trying his best to be merry.

“To Lord and Lady Dearborne for letting me bring home my cake,” Martha declared, raising her cup.

“Very good,” Robert told his daughter with a nod.

“And to Mister Phelps for holding Father’s job until he is ready to come back to work,” Peter added.

“Yes,” Bailey said, setting her hand on Robert’s.

“And to my teacher,” Millie joined.

The others chuckled.

“Yes, to your teacher,” Robert agreed.

“And to Missus Scrooge,” Bailey said.

Robert huffed.

“Robert,” Bailey said softly.

“Sour old apple. She knows we’re in such a state. But here you are, barely fifteen shillings in your pocket for the week, and it’s so late. It’s not right.”

“I don’t know she’s all that aware of our plight, Robert. I try not to share my troubles with her.”

“She could ask.”

“That’s not her way. And thanks to her, we have at least this much,” Bailey said, motioning to the table.

Robert huffed again.

“I think Missus Scrooge is a broken person like me,” Timothy interjected.

Everyone turned to look at the child, the Scotsman and me included.

“What do you mean, darling?” Bailey asked.

“Some people are broken on the outside. I think Missus Scrooge is broken on the inside. That can happen to people, right? When bad things happen to them, it can break them on in the inside.”

The child’s words silenced the table.

“I don’t think she’s trying to be mean, Father. She just…she’s just a bit lost. A bit broken,” Timothy told Robert.

The Scotsman turned and looked at me.

I stared at the small boy. How was it such a tiny babe could speak the truth so plainly, see the world so clearly? He was right. There was something broken inside of me. I had lost…everything. There was nothing left for me but to work, to make money to ensure Fawn had a future, and to keep a roof over my own head. But aside from that, I was hollow on the inside. My family, my child, my husband, even my partner were all gone. I had closed myself from the world to keep out the pain. I hated Christmas. Everything I ever loved had been taken from me at Christmas. Everyone else was so joyful and full of mirth. I knew that if I let it in just a little, even a little, that it would be like exposing a raw wound. I had not recovered from Maisie’s death. Nothing inside me had ever been the same. Maybe that would never heal. The wall around me was necessary. To feel anything was a risk, a risk I was unwilling to take.

Robert set his hand on Timothy’s head. “Maybe you’re right. Let us cheer Missus Scrooge. To Ebony Scrooge’s health. And cheers to them all. Cheers,” Robert called, lifting his drink.

“Cheers,” the family answered.

“And may God bless us every one,” Timothy added, earning him a kiss on the head from his mother.

I choked back the tears that wanted to come. We watched as the family ate, but I couldn’t help but notice how Timothy merely picked at the food on this plate.

I was not the only one who noticed.

“My goodness, I better get some cake on my plate before I run out of room,” Bailey said. She slid the cake toward her. The other children exchanged glances; apparently they knew what their mother was plotting. Bailey cut a large piece and set it on Tiny Tim’s plate.

“Thank you, Mother,” the boy chirped sweetly.

“Enjoy, my dear.”

But still, the boy barely ate.

“Why didn’t she tell me he’d become so ill? Why didn’t she let me know?”

“Perhaps because you have a wall as high as old Hadrian’s around you, lass. Who wants to climb over that just to tell their sorrows. And she knows this time of year is hard on you.”

“But…she should have told me,” I stared at the child, seeing the shadow of my own daughter in his sweet, sickly face. I turned back to the spirit. “Can you see the future? Will the child survive?”

The Scotsman frowned. “If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, the child will die.”

“Can I… What can I do?”

“If only you had some power to influence the fortunes of this family,” the spirit said, motioning to the impoverished state in which the family lived. “Or, perhaps, have some connections to someone who could help the boy. But that would require you opening the door to the world. And risking…”

“Risking?”

“You would need to let yourself love a little, Ebony. You would need to let others back into your heart. You would need to risk the pain to enjoy the reward.”

“Your words are like weapons.”

“Look here,” the Scotsman said then, pointing to his jacket. For the first time, I noticed a pin there. The spirit pressed a button at the center of the pendant. A moment later, the whole thing began to turn clockwise, revealing two faces as it did so. “The faces… They are Grief and Hopelessness. Look closely at them.”

I leaned in to see the images more clearly. I was surprised to discover that the terrorized faces on the pendant were my own.

“It is easy to be swallowed by these two bedfellows and cut yourself off from your fellow man. Beware their ravenous natures. These two will swallow you whole.”

And as I stared into the alternating images on his pendant, I knew he was right. I had allowed myself to fall into a pit of despair and had never recovered. I had thrown myself into my work to numb myself to the world around me. But when I blocked out the pain, I had also blocked out the joy. To my own doom.