Simon and the Christmas Spirit (3 page)

Simon should have felt chagrin or the
urgent need to leave at once, but he had to laugh, again. “You’re
utterly outrageous.”

“
Why, thank you.”
Christopher’s smile was rueful. “I’d hoped to plump up the family
fortune tonight. But I’ll take a nice compliment
instead.”

“
Mr. Andrews, do you ever
take anything seriously?” He didn’t mean to sound stern, but the
man seemed to turn every subject into a moment for mockery—mostly
of himself. Simon had no notion how a person like this got along in
the world, and he felt more curiosity than he had in
months.

“
Some things, yes.” He put
his hand on Simon’s arm. “Sometimes I can manage very serious
business indeed.” And that smile held wicked promises that even
Simon couldn’t misinterpret.

“
Oh,” was all he could
say.

Chapter Two

Christopher might not have
noticed the watching gentleman if he hadn’t been trying to discover
how Billings managed a cheat. Someone’s signals? A mirror? He knew
it was foolish to keep playing and losing money, but he kept his
wagers small, and no one seemed eager to raise them higher. So
Billings must cheat to entertain himself, not to make actual money.
Not like Christopher, who was
not
cheating for once because Will was nervous
enough, poor lad.

The sad fellow drew Christopher’s
suspicion since he seemed too interested in their game. But when
the man drew near, Christopher saw his cheeks were pink from cold
and he smelled of the outdoors. He’d only just come into the club.
And then, when their eyes met, Christopher read a kind of hunger
he’d rarely seen directed at him. Men and women looked at Will with
such longing, but not funny Christopher. The naked yearning wasn’t
lewd—it was sad, just like the man himself. That single glance made
Christopher try to be funnier, put on a bit of a show for his
despondent admirer. He stopped stewing as much about the blister
Billings to watch the sad gent in the reflective glass of the
window.

Poor chap looked as if he’d lost a
dear friend. He watched their table—no, he watched
Christopher!—with such longing that it made Christopher’s heart
hurt for him. Never mind that the fellow paid yearly fees to this
club that were more than double what Christopher made in a year in
his last position in Brighton.

He sneaked another look at the poor
lad. Perhaps that look of sorrowful yearning came from a man who
disliked his own sodomite desires? That would be a pity for them
both. Perhaps it was something to do with this season of joy and a
lack of company. Yes, that would make sense. Christopher imagined
inviting him to his own overcrowded lodgings. The effect of the
small fry would be striking. He’d enjoy that.

And then that note had come.
Christopher had been excited to think it might be an invite, and so
it was—an invitation to go away.

“
Heed it,” Will had
muttered as he’d handed over the paper.

Christopher might have listened and
vanished into the night, but the sad gentleman stared up at the
ceiling as if all that fancy dark wood crushed him. That wasn’t
anger. Perhaps the man’s note held a different sort of warning and
not that of the resentful wealthy man chasing undesirables from his
club?

Christopher studied him and imagined
using that particular lost expression in a routine. Maybe the
missing dog one? He couldn’t imitate those dark, soulful eyes,
though. That came with the happy accident of being born
handsome.

As usual, taking note of a face or an
expression made Christopher feel like a Peeping Tom, as if he
watched Lady Godiva riding past and he should be struck blind.
Certainly he acquired more than he should when he examined naked
emotion, but such feelings wouldn’t stop him. As Will said, he was
too theater and not enough human.

But he was human enough to want to
know what went on behind the unhappy handsome face.

The conversation with Mr. Harris had
proved entertaining. He seemed to come alive. The man actually
blushed. He licked his well-formed lips. He gazed at Christopher
with admiring eyes when he thought no one was looking.

He might not get any financial gain
from this evening, but he suddenly saw the possibility that it
could end satisfactorily after all.

It had been over a year since he’d
touched anyone in an intimate manner. His usual partner in fun back
in Brighton, a fire-eater and juggler, had talked about coming to
visit. But then Bryan had stopped writing and hadn’t returned
Christopher’s last two letters. Ah well, there’d be no anger or
distress, and they’d probably shake hands heartily should they ever
meet again. Perhaps they’d even enjoy each other’s bodies, but
Christopher had been foolish to think that Bryan might come to
London for more. He’d been disappointed, and a trifle lonely—or as
lonely as a man with a family like his could be.

The way this Mr. Harris looked at him,
Christopher didn’t think he’d have much trouble luring him into a
quiet corner. But perhaps he’d let Harris do the luring, because
Christopher’s boarding house was too crowded for even one
more.

Then he got an idea. “Do you suppose
this place has spare rooms open?”

“
I beg your
pardon?”

“
Will says this place has
rooms for out-of-town visitors, or men who want to escape their
nearest and dearest. I wondered if there were any open now, what
with the holidays about to jump down our throat.”

“
I—I wouldn’t know. I live
alone not far away.”

“
Good!” Christopher leapt
to his feet. “That’ll be grand.”

“
What?”

“
You can give me a drink,
and I’ll sing to you. I have a passible voice. And I had to be the
master of ceremony back in tedious old Brighton, which means I can
perform patter and also some dancing. See? I do more than act. But
if I do it here, why, I’d draw attention to myself. Can’t have
that.”

“
What on
earth.”

Christopher usually only pushed music
hall producers hard, but Harris’s wide eyes made him reckless. “You
need entertainment, Mr. Harris. You need to be taken right out of
whatever thoughts are pulling you down. You’ll go back to them, of
course. But take a holiday. It’s nearly Christmas, after all. And I
owe you for your attempt to save me from the devil over there. I
can’t give you money, I can’t draw pictures, but I can do
handsprings and recite poetry.” It occurred to him that maybe the
unhappy Mr. Harris felt alone because no one listened to him.
Christopher would give over the limelight. “Or perhaps I could
listen as you recite. I know how to be in an audience. Do you do
any sort of acrobatics? It would be most entertaining to see a
dignified gentlemen walk on his hands.”

He took note of that idea. He’d dress
in formal wear that actually looked elegant, and not just the
clown’s oversized outfits. Perhaps a distinguished man with a
monocle, walking out with his nose in the air and falling over his
own feet to bounce—

“
I’m sure your offer is
most generous, Mr. Andrews. I, ah, don’t think... That is to say, I
hardly have anything that would be of any interest.”

Christopher would have backed away if
Harris sounded hostile, he supposed. But the man sounded flustered
and worried.

“
Oh, I wouldn’t allow a
man I didn’t know into my home either,” Christopher said cheerily.
“We’ll go with the original plan. I’ll be right back.”

Before Harris could object,
Christopher went in search of Will.

“
No. I shall not lift a
key to one of our rooms. Do you want me to lose my position? And
how will this make the money we need?”

“
That’s not what I’m
trying anymore tonight.”

“
You’re not doing a-an
assignation, are you?”

The thought had occurred to him. “Of
course not. That is illegal. I wouldn’t make you party to such
depravity.”

“
Oh, Christopher, don’t be
sillier than you need to be. Why don’t you and Lilah go busk on the
street? It brought some fine income last week.”

“
It’s too cold. People
hurry past without stopping. And our toes froze.”

“
Don’t you mooch from any
of the club members.”

“
Of course not. Especially
not that one. He looks stripped to the bone.”

“
Curtis says he’s one of
our wealthiest members.”

“
Oh.” Christopher felt
rather foolish. “He doesn’t dress the part.”

“
Not everyone dresses to
fill a role.”

“
Tchah, bite your tongue,
Will. You shame the family trade. Why if Grandfather were still
alive, he’d weep to hear—”

“
Give over, Christopher.
I’ll get a key, but don’t you make Mr. Harris angry or push him
into any of your harebrained schemes.”

“
I have none. You’re
mixing me up with Lilah and Billbo.”

“
They’re worse, I grant
you, but you’re as bad as Mother.”

Christopher allowed Will to ride his
favorite hobbyhorse, the misfortune to be born into a family
determined to break every rule of sensible, polite behavior. And he
let Will hold forth not only because he wanted the key, but because
the poor boy really did need to explode every now and
again.

Fortunately, Will had to get back to
waiting on the club members, so after a few more squawks of
indignation about how the Andrewses persisted on wasting time and
money on their dreams, he fetched the key and vanished into the
kitchen. Christopher inched over to a decorative bowl of waxed
fruit and walnuts, grabbed a couple of each, and shoved them into
his jacket pocket.

“
We keep them open, but
this will lock it.” A disapproving Will handed him the key a few
minutes later.

Christopher kissed his brother on both
cheeks like an exuberant Frenchman. “I’ll give it back
tomorrow.”

Will wiped his cheeks with his gloved
hand. “Don’t tell me what you’re doing. I do not want to
know.”

“
Nothing unpleasant, I
promise.” Christopher saluted, then forced himself to saunter, not
rush, into the cardroom. Mr. Harris had stayed put in the chair,
pretending to read the newspaper—or Christopher hoped it was
pretense, but he didn’t look up when Christopher sat next to him
and asked, “Shall we continue our entertaining exchange on the
first floor?”

Before Mr. Harris could
object, Christopher went on, “I can juggle too. I’d offer to show
you what I can do with flaming sticks, but I don’t think the
keepers of this place would like me to do that in, um, indoors.” He
almost said
would like me to do that in
one of their bedrooms
, but he didn’t want
to remind either of them that there was a bed upstairs. “And shall
I recite Puck’s lines? I can do most of the lines in that
play.”

Mr. Harris put down the paper then. “I
can see you as Puck. You’re tricky and appealing
enough.”

Appealing was good. “I played him as
sinister rather than, well, puckish.” Christopher donned the cruel
expression he wore as Robin Goodfellow, the face he’d based on a
childhood bully who’d thrashed him regularly. “Nothing more
dangerous than a bored magical being given leave to play with
mortals.”

Mr. Harris smiled. “Yes, that does
describe you this evening.”

Christopher gave a startled snort of
laughter. “And you called me absurd.” He reached out his hand as if
to shake Mr. Harris’s and slid the large key into his palm. “Room
three.” He turned and left the room. He waited in the dim corridor
until the porter went to use the indoor loo. Used to avoiding
grocers and bakers, any Andrews boy could run swiftly and
quietly.

Grinning into the darkness, he bounded
up the wide staircase with the carved oak bannisters and the
portraits of important club members. The higher he climbed, the
less impressive the portraits seemed. On the other hand, the more
interesting the faces became.

He slowed to examine one eighteenth
century gent patting a dog and gazing benevolently out at the
world. That face was almost as good-looking as his own Mr. Harris,
although considerably happier. Christopher smiled back. Happy
Christmas, he told the man and walked down the upstairs corridor as
if he belonged there.

He’d been disappointed that he’d lost
money tonight. They couldn’t afford to lose another penny, not if
they were to buy any sort of Christmas for the young ones. That set
them back to the amount they’d had last week—enough for rent, but
their goose would be Cratchit tiny. Pre-Scrooge-transformation
Cratchit. That holiday spirit might help Christopher. For a moment,
he grew lost in planning. Tomorrow, he could dig up his holly crown
and assemble some of the others to sing carols on a street corner.
And then, perhaps he’d even look for employment as boring as
Will’s.

Tomorrow.

Tonight he’d enjoy some sort of
private performance with a man who seemed to need it almost as much
as Christopher did.

Chapter Three

He turned the key over and over in his
hand. He got up and walked past the dozing Jenks. This would be him
in ten, fifteen years perhaps, but not tonight.