Simon and the Christmas Spirit (7 page)

“
Ah, very good, sir. Enjoy
the day.”

Simon walked for quite some time in
the dreary weather. It was Christmas Eve. He would go home, treat
himself to a nice glass of port, then change and attend a party
he’d received an invitation to some time back. He’d politely
declined at the time, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to send
another note explaining his situation had changed. Perhaps Mrs.
Wire wouldn’t think it too incredibly bad form.

When he walked through the park again,
he looked for the juggler, but both performer and children had long
gone. The streets were full of carriages and carts and the
sidewalks crowded with pedestrians rushing to the shopping district
to buy Christmas gifts or to mail packages. Everyone he passed
appeared frazzled but happy. Damnably happy, making him feel all
the more solitary and adrift.

You don’t have to
be
, a calm, an assured voice
remarked.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself
and do something to change your life.

He
would
go to Mrs. Wire’s party
tonight. If he arrived after dinner, his presence wouldn’t be an
inconvenience. The event should be a fairly informal, and he quite
liked the sharp-tongued dowager and her set.

Armed with a sense of purpose, Simon
mounted the steps to his front door. One of the maids had hung a
wreath, and his house looked as festive as others on the street. He
entered the foyer and inhaled cinnamon and apples. Cook had made a
delicious tart for his tea. He would relish it and then carry on to
his evening’s entertainment.

By the time Simon had changed and
settled in the sitting room with his feet warming at the fire,
sleet had returned to pelt the windowpane. Too foul to go out. He
was comfortable and relaxed and had little desire to attend Mrs.
Wire’s Christmas Eve party after all. Just as well since he hadn’t
gotten around to sending a note, maybe because he never truly
intended to go.

Very well, then. He’d have tea and
read for a few hours. Tomorrow, maybe he’d make good on his promise
to become more sociable.

But after tea when Simon sat down with
a volume, he felt too restless to remain still. Thoughts of the
previous night’s encounter interrupted every line he tried to read.
Christopher’s not-quite-handsome but oh-so-intriguing face haunted
him. The joking, the juggling, the laughter, not to mention the
things they’d done together—none of it would let him enjoy a quiet
evening alone.

Finally, Simon tossed aside the book
and rose from his armchair. He gazed out between the drapes at the
crunchy glaze on the grass and shrubs. Not quite a fluffy drift of
snow, but at least a little white for Christmas. He tried to feel
some modicum of holiday spirit, but not a trickle of hopefulness or
good cheer remained.

“
Bugger and drat.” Getting
out of the house would do him good. Maybe he’d go to the other
club, find some other benighted soul with nothing in particular to
do, and play a game of cards or share a few drinks. Perhaps speak
to a particular waiter about his brother…

Too restless to wait for his driver to
hitch up and bring around the carriage, he decided to take a cab.
Outside, the wind cut through his heavy woolen coat and nipped the
tips of his ears. He hunched his shoulders, heading into the breeze
and the stinging sleet. All the cabs seemed to be already carrying
passengers from one place to another. At last Simon caught a
driver’s attention.

After a shivering ride in the open
cab, it was pure pleasure to enter the warm foyer of the club. One
lone footman was on duty, and the great room was nearly empty of
clubmen. There was Lord Albert, whose wife had asked him to remove
himself from their domicile. He appeared to be deep in his cups,
gazing morosely at the flickering fire and drinking often from the
glass in his hand. Mr. Beadle, a solicitor of note, conversed with
a man Simon didn’t recognize. And then there was Percival Jenks
playing solitaire at a table. He caught sight of Simon and beckoned
him over.

“
Good Lord, it’s dire
weather. Found your port in the storm, eh?”

“
Mm.” Simon sat in the
chair across from him at the small table and realized he had
absolutely nothing to say. But that was all right. Jenks made up
for his silence with loquacious yammering. He talked about who had
already come and gone from the club. Shared all the tidbits of
gossip he’d gathered throughout a day of sitting in probably this
same seat. Saving the best for last, he told in great detail of the
scandal that had occurred.

“
I don’t suppose you’ve
heard… No, of course you haven’t, as you haven’t been in yet today,
but it seems Billings is very likely to be blackballed. He was
discovered to be cheating at cards, and the board called him in for
an interview. It was strongly suggested he relinquish his
membership so he might leave with some shred of dignity rather than
be booted. Budgie Jones spread the word after the
meeting.”

Jenks waved his hand with
the drink in it, sloshing onto his cuff. “Last night, you spoke
with the very man who brought Billings’s cheating to the attention
of the club—that stranger in the cheap suit. And
there’s
a story in
itself. When the board explored the situation, they learned he was
not vouched for by a member but allowed in by one of the waiters,
the rather handsome chap, Anders or some such. At any rate, the
waiter was dismissed immediately.”

“
Dismissed?” Simon
straightened, his wandering attention riveted.

“
Yes. Without a reference.
One can’t have riffraff wandering about the place.” Jenks tipped
his head and gazed at Simon through half-moon spectacles. His
brandy-laced breath was strong enough to reach Simon. “You didn’t
notice anything amiss about the stranger? You talked with him at
some length. What did he have to say for himself? Did his accent
reveal he wasn’t up to snuff?”

“
He appeared perfectly
fine,” Simon said. “But the brother was let go, and so near
Christmas. That’s a shame.”

“
Seems to me he got what
he deserved.” Jenks squinted. “Why did you say they were brothers?
What led you to believe that?”

“
I must go.” Simon bolted
out of his seat. He didn’t know what he planned to do, but he felt
an urgent need to do something.

Christopher had told him quite a bit
about his family. It was clear they lived hand to mouth and relied
on every family member’s income to pay for rent, heat, and food.
Will Andrews and his family would be devastated by the loss of his
job. And Simon recalled that Christopher had spoken about buying a
few Christmas presents for the younger children. A couple of girls
and a boy, Simon believed. What sort of Christmas morning would
those children have now? What sort of Christmas dinner?

Visions of Bob Cratchit-level poverty
and a hobbling Tiny Tim danced in his mind as he hurried back out
of the club. His abrupt exit after only just arriving caught the
attention of the few men in the room, but Simon didn’t care. He
couldn’t help but feel this was partly his fault. If he’d kept to
himself and not sent that note, Christopher might have lost money
and eventually have given up and left. No one would’ve been the
wiser about Billings, but no one would have learned about the
Andrews brothers either, and Will would probably still have his
job.

Whether there was actually any blame
to rest on his shoulders didn’t matter. Simon carried guilt and
worry anyway. One clear thought, shining like a bright star,
sparked in his mind. He had the wherewithal to make an entire
family’s holiday season a comfortable and happy one. He could play
the part of Father Christmas and arrive at the Andrewses’ house
tomorrow with gifts and culinary offerings—those he could find on
Christmas day, at any rate. His own kitchen, yes, he would raid
that place. It might not be the sort of grand knightly quest he’d
daydreamed about earlier that morning, but it was something within
the realm of possibility.

And the fact that he would see
Christopher there… That was a ribbon on top of the
package.

Chapter Six

When Christopher woke, he found a body
curled on the rug. He climbed from the bed and put his blanket over
the sleeping young man. He walked out of the small room he shared
with an absent Will and this newcomer, apparently. He hoped to find
his mother and found Uncle Dion instead.

“
Who is that?” Christopher
jerked his thumb toward his room.

Dion, not actually anyone’s uncle, had
an unremarkable appearance. He was of middling height and possessed
a pleasant face with pink cheeks and graying hair plastered to his
scalp. The only unusual part of his appearance, besides the
pink-and-green-striped waistcoat he wore, were two enormous
gray-and-black eyebrows that reminded Christopher of strange furry
snakelike creatures that dipped and soared as Dion raised and
lowered them, which he did whenever he spoke. “Your sister brought
darling Mimi to us. She had been used badly. Her family wants
nothing to do with her, just because she was born with a penis.” He
shook his head and rolled his blue eyes.

“
Another mouth for
Christmas,” Christopher grumbled.

“
Wash your mouth out,
boy,” Dion scolded. “You know there is never room at the inn, but
your family’s stable is always open to strays. Certainly smells
like a stable in here.”

That reminded Christopher of the
conversation he’d had with Simon about Will’s last job as an
ostler, which, of course, reminded Christopher that his rash
actions had caused Will to lose his latest position as a
waiter.

He sighed and walked to the tiny
kitchen. The house was a warren of small rooms. Small was a
blessing because they’d nearly run out of coal and were using the
remaining bits and pieces to cook or warm a room only in the
evenings. The doors stayed shut against the cold, and when enough
of them gathered in a room, it was nearly warm. A week earlier,
Christopher had found and repaired a small paraffin stove that
could heat tea or make eggs, but not do both at the same
time.

At the moment, a large pot of stew
steamed on it.

“
Smells wonderful,” he
told his father, who sat next to it, a huge wooden spoon in one
hand. “What sort is it?”

“
As I told Kyle, ’tis best
not to ask,” his father said. His deep voice filled the room. “You
found Mike on your floor?”

“
Mimi?”

“
That’s Dion’s creation.
Mike didn’t request the sobriquet.” His father yawned hugely,
roaring like a lion. “Although the boy does have more than a touch
of Pansy Pranceypot to him.”

Christopher groaned. “Choose another
name, if you please.” He hated the character of Pansy Pranceypot,
his own invention.

He took a little bit of everyone he
met and put them into his stage characters. Waiters, housewives,
clerks, madmen, gentlemen, thieves, doormen, ingénues, even
prostitutes—all provided fodder for his acts. But he’d never done a
single lisping, limp-wristed foppish boy on stage. Pansy existed
only for the entertainment of his family and friends, many of whom
corrected his walk and angle of head every time he did
her.

When they were still in Brighton, Dion
had noticed Pansy’s absence in Christopher’s patter and had grown
indignant. “Why aren’t you putting Pansy on the stage?” he’d
demanded.

Christopher had hesitated. “I hate
that the public is cruel to people who are like Pansy, who…” He
tried to think of a word.

“
People such as yours ever
so truly,” Dion said, with an exaggerated lisp.

“
Yes, of course. I hate
that you’re mocked and disdained by strangers who don’t care about
you.”

Dion had made a rude sound. “You mock
the entirety of the human race. Are you leaving poor Pansy out of
that category?”

“
Of course not. I just
dislike that sort of laughter.”

“
Better laughter and
applause than a pummeling, you idiot. If a boy dresses too finely
with a flower just a trifle too large, he’ll likely be accepted—if
he’s a gent. But dress in such a manner among middle or lower
classes, and the best way to stave off beatings is to claim it’s an
act for the stage. All an act. Self-preservation is all, laddie,
with gorgeous fun along the way, of course. Put Pansy up on the
stage, or I shall feel the need to compete for parts again, and
you’ll have no chance when I start flashing my goods for the
discerning impresarios.”

Christopher had obeyed, and, back in
Brighton, Pansy had been one of his most popular characters.
Christopher thought about Dion’s threat to go back on the stage and
knew it wasn’t a real one. Dion was now the only one among them who
had a steady job at the moment, setting type at a newspaper. He’d
even work tomorrow morning, Christmas Day. He actually liked the
work, which was a relief to one and all. An unhappy Dion was a
noisy Dion. “The boredom and hurry suits me,” Dion
explained.

Even if Dion decided to
return to the profession, Christopher might leave Pansy out of his
London auditions. He thought about doing a particular sad-faced
gentleman, and, no, he’d never use
him
on the stage either.