Hauntings and Humbug: A Steampunk Christmas Carol

6 Christmas Morning

By the time I reached the workshop, it was five o’clock. It was bitterly cold. For the first time in years, I lit the small stove in the front office. The orange fire cast a glow on the images hanging on the walls. Taking out a cloth, I dusted the frames, including the painting of Jacqueline Marley I had hung on the wall.

“You got us into this. It’s time for me to get us out,” I told my old partner. “But I never would have seen it if it weren’t for you.” The terrible thought that Marley was trapped in purgatory for a road on which I’d traveled with her made something awful stick in my throat. Maybe if I turned things around, somehow I could save us both.

I sat down at my desk. The spot felt foreign to me after so many years. Opening the drawer, I pulled out some paper and turned up the light on my gaslamp.

If I could tinker a machine to walk of his own volition, couldn’t I tinker braces for a young boy’s twisted legs? If I removed several components from Dickens, I could fashion something that would work. I began sketching, considering the problem. I didn’t look up until the clock struck seven. The sun had just begun to rise. A rosy glow was cast on the snow-covered cobblestones outside. The shop across the street had an evergreen wreath with a large red bow on the door. The light from the baker’s shop glowed orange. Outside, a lamplighter hummed Christmas carols as he made his way down the street, extinguishing the gaslamps.

At the back of the workshop, I heard a heavy knock on the door.

I set down my pen and rose.

I inhaled slowly and deeply, putting steel in my spine. What came next would not be easy. One didn’t say no to these people.

Inside the workshop, Dickens lay on the workbench. I would never forget what I had seen through the automaton’s vision. Grabbing a tarp, I tossed it over the machine. Turning, I grabbed the pistol hidden on my workbench and shoved it into my pocket, then I went to the door.

“Who is it?” I called in a stiff voice.

“Fenton,” a gruff voice replied.

I swallowed hard and opened the door.

On the other side of the door was a massive beast of a man with a head of shaggy grey hair and a look so mean that I swore I’d seen fire in his eyes from time to time. Second-in-command for one of London’s most ruthless gangs, the brute’s boss had offered me more than a reasonable amount of money for the automaton lying inside. I had justified saying yes, justified the idea that I was making just one metal monster. But Dickens had told me the truth. One was more than enough in the wrong hands. I glanced behind Fenton. Two more brutes were waiting with a wagon. The horses hitched to the front danced around nervously.

“Well, tinker?” he demanded.

I shook my head. “Tell Cyril I’m sorry. I couldn’t get it to work.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“It’s rubbish. Won’t stand. Won’t walk. It just teeters back and forth then falls over. The design isn’t possible.”

“That’s not what you told my boss. We gave you the designs for that other machine, the Scarlette Automaton.”

“So you did, but everyone knows the Boatswain designs are brilliant. I’m a carnival tinker. I…overreached. My apologies.”

“Your apologies?” the massive man said, taking a step toward me.

I stood my ground and held his eye. “My apologies. Do you think I’m stupid enough to fail Cyril without trying my best? I’ve been working day and night. I could not get it to work.”

Fenton held my gaze.

“And no amount of smacking me across the face will make it work either.”

The monster huffed. Apparently, my guess had been right.

“I’ve done good work for you in the past. You know that, and so does Cyril. I couldn’t make it work. That’s all there is to it.”

Clenching his teeth, the brute glared at me. “Don’t expect to get any work from us again. You’re blacklisted, Scrooge. Don’t come to the district beggin’ for a job. Stupid woman,” he said, then turned and stalked off.

“Happy Christmas,” I called.

The comment earned me a glare, and once more, I swore I could see fire in the man’s eyes. “Humbug,” Fenton replied icily.

With a shudder, I closed and locked the door behind me.

Only when I heard the snap of reins and the jingling of rigging did I breathe a sigh of relief. They were gone. Once more, I crossed the workshop. I paused, pulling the cover away from Dickens’s head.

“You stay right here. I’ll be back for you later,” I told it then headed to the front. Grabbing my coat, I headed outside. Now, for all the rest.

The streets of London were filled with merrymakers. Everywhere I went, people stopped to wish one another Happy Christmas. And for the first time in many years, as I made my way through the crowd, I let myself see my fellow man, not as inconveniences to be tolerated or tests to my patience, but as people, no more, and no less.

As I was making my way down the street to the butcher’s, I spotted the two solicitors. The squatter of the two spied me as well. Elbowing his partner, he motioned for him to cross the street to avoid me.

“Gentlemen,” I called, moving to meet them.

Both men froze.

“Oh, Missus Scrooge, didn’t see you there,” the round man lied.

“Right. Well, I apologize for my demeanor yesterday. I was very busy, and in such moments, I get rather fixated. Here,” I said, dipping into my purse. “For your charity.” I removed one of the men’s hats and dropped the money therein. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy…Happy Christmas to you, Missus Scrooge!”

Hurrying on my way, I then stopped at the butcher’s shop. The man, whose business was no more than a block away from mine, looked twice when I entered.

“Missus Scrooge?” he asked, a confused expression his face. “Why…I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Indeed. I’ve been far too busy for my health. Now, please, I would like you to send your fattest goose to this address,” I said, handing him the address to Robert and Bailey Cratchit’s home.

“Are you sure, Missus Scrooge? Times are tight, I know, and the expense…perhaps a more modest—”

“No. I’m certain,” I said, setting money on the counter. “Will that be enough?” I offered, giving twice what I guessed was needed.

“Oh,” the man exclaimed. “It’s too generous, please—“

“Keep it. Keep it all, and Happy Christmas,” I said then headed out once more.

“And to you, Missus,” the butcher called as I exited the door.

Once I was finished there, I made stops at the baker’s and grocer’s, asking for additional goods to be delivered to Bailey’s family. Tiny Tim would eat well today, and all the rest of his days, if I had anything to say about it.

After I was finished with a few additional purchases, I headed across town to an address I had not visited in many years.

As I stood outside Fawn’s townhouse, I breathed deeply, letting the cold air fill me. I loved the girl. In fact, she was more precious to me than anything else in my world. Why hadn’t I ever told her? Why had loving her from afar been enough? Fawn was all I had left. Wasn’t she worth a little risk?

I went to the front door and gave it a knock.

A few moments later, the butler appeared.

“Missus Scrooge,” he said, quickly masking the surprise on his features.

“Am I too late for Christmas tea?” I asked.

The man shook his head. “No. No, of course not. They are gathering now. Please, come inside.”

I hushed the nervous quake in my stomach. Of course, Charles’s family would be here, and perhaps some of Fawn’s close friends had come to call. I would have to talk to people, make conversation. Maybe, just maybe, it was okay to try.

From the parlor, I heard Fawn’s raucously laughter followed by the sound of other voices. I smoothed down the skirts of my dress. It was an old red frock, which had been lying dormant in the back of my closet for years. The once-bright ruby color had faded, but it was still festive—or, at least as festive as I was going to get.

The butler opened the door.

“Missus Ebony Scrooge,” he announced.

The room on the other side went silent.

I swallowed hard, then entered.

Fawn, who’d been sitting with some other ladies, rose. “Aunt,” she called, surprise in her voice.

I pried my smile out of my heart. “Happy Christmas,” I told her.

At that, the others broke out in cheers.

Joining his wife, Charles and Fawn crossed the room to greet me.

“Aunt Ebony,” Fawn said, taking my hand. “I’m so pleased to see you. My, how lovely you look. But I can see you were at work already today,” she said with a giggle, taking my hands. There was ink on my fingers.

“There is always work to be done.”

“Well, we are very glad you could break off to join us. My parents are here,” Charles said, motioning around the room. “And my sister and her husband. Some of my colleagues from the bank. Oh, and you must meet my uncle Duncan. What a jokester. You’ll love him,” Charles said, then took my arm and led me across the room toward a man wearing a green kilt.

I slowed my steps when I spotted him. With his dark, curly hair and strong build, he looked every bit the part of the spirit of Christmas Present.

“Uncle Duncan,” Charles called.

Laughing at some joke he’d just shared with Charles’s father, the man turned to face me.

It wasn’t him.

This man had no beard, and his eyes were deep brown. The stranger stared at me, his dark eyes meeting mine. The wrinkles around his eyes softened, and he smiled gently at me.

“Charles, who is this?” he asked, adjusted his posture to stand more formally.

“Uncle Duncan has been away with Her Majesty’s Airship Fleet. He was gone when Fawn and I got married, so you will not have met,” Charles explained to me then turned to his uncle. “Uncle Duncan, this is Ebony Scrooge, Fawn’s aunt and benefactor.”

The man reached out to take my hand.

Waves of embarrassment washed over me as I realized Fawn was right. My hands were covered in ink.

The man chuckled then put a polite kiss on my hand. “Are you a writer, Missus Scrooge?”

I laughed lightly. “Goodness, no. I have no stomach for the stretch of emotion needed for that task. I am a tinker.”

“A mechanically minded woman,” Duncan said with a nod. “I like that. And Mister Scrooge, is he…”

“Mister Scrooge is…no longer in the picture.”

“Oh! I see,” the man replied then smiled more brightly. “Well, Missus Scrooge—Ebony, wasn’t it?—why don’t you come warm yourself by the fire and tell me what had you scribbling so furiously on Christmas Day.”

With smiles, Fawn and Charles left me. I followed the handsome Scotsman to the hearth.

“It’s Ebbie, actually, and today my mind was set on helping the disabled have better mobility.”

“Indeed? Oh, well, you better tell me all about that, lass,” he said, extending his arm, which I—to my surprise—readily took.

It was approaching the dinner hour when I went to Fawn to take my leave.

“You’re leaving before dinner? Is something wrong?” Fawn asked, that same disappointed look on her face that I’d seen there a million times in the past.

“No. Not at all. I thought…I thought I would pay a visit to the Cratchits.”

“Oh,” Fawn said in surprise. “Of course.”

“Fawn, are you still friendly with your old ballet teacher, Missus Murray? The ballerina whose husband was a physician?”

“Oh, yes. Such a lovely couple. I try to visit Missus Murray at least once a month.”

“Will you do me a favor? I would very much like for Doctor Murray to call on the Cratchits. Little Timothy’s condition is quite serious.”

“Has it grown so grave? Bailey never says anything.”

“No, she does not.”

“I will pay the Murrays a visit this week. The doctor is such a kindly gentleman. I’m sure he will help.”

“If there is an expense, I will see to it.”

“Oh, Aunt Ebony, you are such a soft-hearted lady under all of that humbug,” Fawn said with a laugh, pulling me into an embrace.

I chuckled.

When she let me go, I reached out and touched her cheek. “How like your mother you look. The very picture of her. Happy Christmas, sweet girl.”

Tears welled in Fawn’s eyes. “Happy Christmas, Aunt Ebony.”

“Your wraps,” the butler said then, helping me back into my coat.

A moment later, Charles and Duncan appeared at our side.

“Are you leaving us, Aunt Ebony?” Charles asked, concern in his voice.

“She will dine with the Cratchits,” Fawn explained.

“Oh, I see. Very well. But I do hope you will come to see us soon. We will have a very merry party on New Year’s Eve. Uncle Duncan, will you still be in London at that time?”

The man nodded. “That I will. Perhaps we’ll see you again then, Missus Scrooge.”

“Maybe so,” I said with a playful smile. A wave of embarrassment rolled over me as my cheeks burned red. I pretended not to notice the look Fawn and Charles exchanged.

“You’ll take the carriage,” Charles said, then motioned to the butler. “I insist.”

“I…thank you,” I told him then turned to Fawn. “I’ll see you soon,” I told her.

She smiled happily, nodding.

I cast one last look at those deep brown eyes.

Duncan smiled kindly at me.

With that, I turned and left the house, amazed at how lovely it felt to feel the thaw in my heart beginning to set in.

The sound of laughter and merriment on the other side of the door at the Cratchit home filled my heart with a strange sensation: joy. The children were singing, as were Robert and Bailey. As I stood outside the door, guilt crept across my heart. I had closed myself off to the person who spent each and every day with me. I didn’t know her burdens, didn’t know how she suffered. I just worked, blindly, on the wrong thing. And I never concerned myself with whether or not she had enough. I knew Robert had been out of work due to his injuries, but I hadn’t thought of what more I could do to help. I had been so blocked. But now…

I knocked on the door.

“It’s a surprise visitor,” Peter called, the other children laughing.

“I’ll go,” Bailey said.

A moment later, the door opened. On the other side, I spotted all the faces of the smiling children. I was shocked when their smiles dimmed when they saw me.

“Missus Scrooge,” Bailey said.

“What did she say? Who is there?” Robert asked.

“Missus Scrooge? What is it? Was there a problem with the delivery?” Bailey asked, the joy deflating from her face.

“I…” When did I become such a person that the last person they expected to be kind was me? I smiled. “Did you get the goose?”

“The goose?” Bailey asked, a confused look on her face. But then realization washed over her. “You?”

I nodded.

Grinning, Bailey turned back to her family. “Everyone, what a marvelous surprise! Missus Scrooge is the mysterious benefactor for all this cheer!”

At that, the children applauded.

“Ebony, please, come in. Won’t you stay for supper?” Bailey said, stepping aside.

“If you will have me.”

“Of course,” she said, ushering me inside.

I pulled off my coat, relishing the warmth of the small home. I went to Robert, who was sitting by the fire, his leg propped up. “Robert. How are you feeling? How is the leg coming along?”

“Could be better, Missus Scrooge, but I’ll be on my feet again in no time.”

“I’ve asked Fawn to have a doctor come around to see little Timothy. Please ask him to have a look at your legs when he comes,” I said.

“A doctor? You’re having a doctor come here?” Bailey asked.

“Yes, and have a look at these. Let me know what you think,” I said, pulling the sketches I’d done from my pockets. “You’ll need to look over the supports. I’m not sure I’ve sketched the joint points quite right. I have an exciting, new venture planned for us for this new year, Bailey Cratchit. I hope you’re ready to stretch your skills.”

“I…” Bailey began, looking over the schematics. “This is brilliant.”

“Good. Let’s discuss it next week when you return from your holiday. Now, where is little Timothy?”

“I’m here, Missus Scrooge,” the boy called. He was sitting at his small stool in the corner reading a book.

Pulling a seat from the kitchen table, I joined the child. “And how are you on this lovely Christmas?” I asked the boy.

“Very well, Missus Scrooge. I am very pleased to see you here.”

“And I am pleased to see you as well. I have something for you. Two somethings, in fact,” I said, then dipped into my bag, pulling out an orange, which I handed to the child.

He took the fruit, a wide smile on his face. “Why, it’s big enough for all of us.”

I smiled at him. “There are more here for your brothers and sisters as well,” I said, patting my bag. “But this one is for you,” I said, then dipped into my bag once more. From inside, I pulled out a small, stuffed kitten with a bell on its collar, which I’d picked up that morning at the toymaker’s shop. I handed it to him.

“Why, it’s a tabby,” Timothy said with a laugh.

“Indeed, it is. Once, I had a little girl, Maisie. She had a kitten just like this one. Made at the very same shop. It was her favorite. I thought you might like one too.”

“Oh, I do. Look at its little bell,” the boy said, ringing the small bell on the kitten’s collar. “I’m glad you came to see us, Missus Scrooge. It truly is a very Happy Christmas.”

“That it is. Bless you, Timothy.”

“Bless you, Missus Scrooge. And may God bless us each and every one.”

“Even those of us who are broken?” I whispered to him.

The boy raised his eyebrows in surprise, then wrapped his tiny arm around me and whispered in my ear. “Especially the broken ones,” he said then hugged me tight.

And from that Christmas thereon, I never uttered another humbug.