The Mistletoe Kiss Read online

  As the shop was closed, he made his way to the back street and through the yard. He knocked gently on the door. Moments later, Mr. Fenton came and opened it.

  “I must get you a key,” he said as Christy came in, no doubt bringing the freezing cold and wet with him, but Mr. Fenton didn’t seem to bother.

  “How was she?” he asked, holding out his hand to take Christy’s coat.

  “Well. No firewood, food, or tea in the house, but otherwise well.” Christy sank into the chair by the roaring fire and felt guilty. “The children have gone to their grandparents. His first wife’s parents.”

  Mr. Fenton poured boiling water into the teapot and set out two cups. “Perhaps a good idea?”

  Christy nodded.

  “She explained how to make the biscuits again,” he said, and Mr. Fenton smiled. Just a small smile, but his eyes were warm. He seemed to have forgiven the mistletoe kiss, and he wasn’t throwing him out, so that lifted a huge weight from Christy’s mind. He sniffed the air. “Something smells lovely.”

  Mr. Fenton stirred the tea, handed Christy a cup, and nodded. “Stew.”

  Christy’s mouth watered, but he thought of his mother in the cold house with no fire.

  “Are you very worried about her?”

  The question was gentle. Mr. Fenton sat opposite him, holding his tea.

  Christy nodded. “He’s sober at the moment, but I don’t know how long it will last.” He sipped the tea. “I’ll give them money from my wages tomorrow.”

  Mr. Fenton frowned as he sipped his tea. A log crackled and hissed on the fire. “Have you considered giving her food and firewood rather than money? That way, your wages actually help her?”

  Christy considered the idea. “I could, it would mean a beating, but as long as he doesn’t take it out on her…” Christy shrugged.

  “Can’t March find work?” Mr. Fenton asked.

  “Doesn’t seem to be able to. He’s got a reputation as a drunkard and a brawler, and he’s not a man people could trust. Who’d employ him?”

  “I wish I could offer more help, but it’s difficult to know what to do that won’t simply inflame the situation.”

  Mr. Fenton was right so Christy just nodded and sipped his tea. The fire crackled again and they sat in comfortable silence.

  “You could take her some of the stew and firewood tonight from here. Is March likely to be in the house?” Mr. Fenton said.

  “He went out.”

  “Well, we could pop around with something for her to eat and to keep her warm?” He shrugged awkwardly, then went to rummage in a cupboard and came out with a stew pot.

  “Here. You could put it in this. It has a lid.”

  Christy’s eyes widened. Mr. Fenton ladled some stew from the pot on the stove into the dish, put a lid on it and wrapped it in a tea towel. He went outside and came back holding a bag filled with wood, and then put it on the floor. He hesitated a moment and then added some candles, then cleared his throat. “I will come with you and help you carry it.”

  “You can’t do that…”

  “I can. Come. Get yourself together.” He took a small bag from a drawer and put some tea into it, then took the loaf of bread that was sitting on the side, sliced some off and put that in another bag along with some cheese.

  Christy got himself together, and blinked back tears. Mr. Fenton went back outside and came back with a small wooden crate. He put the dish in, and the bag with the other food items and handed it to Christy. He picked up the bag with the wood in it, and together, they set off.

  They walked side by side, Christy slowing to allow him to keep pace. Lawrence kept glancing at him, but his head was down and he remained silent. This was getting ridiculous. It now appeared that his protective streak extended to the lad’s mother. He could only hope that they wouldn’t encounter the stepfather because Lawrence was inclined to agree with Christy when he said that it was for the best if he wasn’t brought to the brute’s attention. As they made their way through the narrow streets, the cold seemed to cling harder. Children screamed and doors slammed and there was a pervading smell of boiled cabbage, stale grease, ale, and piss.

  “Here,” Christy said, stopping as they approached the ramshackle building that his mother apparently lived in. “Would you wait here?”

  Lawrence nodded. He handed the bag of wood to him, and helped him adjust his grip on the box so he could carry both. “If March is there, I’m coming back.”

  Lawrence nodded and watched him walk towards the door. He hesitated, and peered through the window, and then apparently deemed it safe to enter because he walked through the door. Lawrence dug his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. It was a truly dreadful place. Loud, stinking, and squalid. God alone knew how many people lived in each home, as people poured in and out of the rooms continually. He tried to remain unnoticeable, but inevitably he was challenged.

  “Hoi! Got a penny, mate?” Lawrence looked at the young boy glaring up at him. Filthy, ragged, and probably starving. He fished in his pocket, but then bethought himself. The child dispensed a mouthful of obscenities and disappeared.

  The door opened again, and Christy came out. He jogged over to where Lawrence stood. “Would…would you come and meet her?” he said, awkwardly. “She would like to thank you.”

  Lawrence felt immediately uncomfortable. “I don’t need thanks, really I don’t.”

  “But…” He looked hopeful, and Lawrence could see the woman standing at the door. His heart sank a little. “Of course I would like to meet her.”

  Christy beamed and took him by the arm.

  “Mama, my employer, Mr. Fenton. Mr. Fenton, my mother, Mrs. March.”

  They shook hands and she took both of his between hers. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing them. “Thank you for the food and for giving my son a chance.”

  “It is entirely my pleasure, Mrs. March. Your son is a hard worker, and frankly, I don’t know what I would do without him. He has transformed my shop. You should call in one day and see.”

  “I’d like that,” she said with a sad look. She let go of him and turned to Christy. “You’d best get back before he returns.”

  Lawrence watched as Christy gritted his teeth and nodded. He kissed his mother on the cheek and chivvied her back inside to the warmth.

  “I hate leaving her there with him,” Christy whispered, staring at the closed door.

  Chapter 8

  They walked in silence back to the shop, shoulders hunched against the cold. The incessant rain had stopped, but a searching frost had replaced it. Lawrence kept glancing at Christy, but he appeared deep in thought. A frown line drew his brows down and his lips were drawn into a thin line. A gust of wind whipped at his scarf, making Christy grab it and stuff it back into his coat. Every time he looked at Christy, he felt the shape of his lips on his cheek. Unconsciously, he rubbed his fingers against the spot, and then, realising what he was doing, shoved his hands back in his pockets.

  When they arrived back at the shop, the back room was still warm. With a sigh of relief, he divested himself of his outer garments and held his hands out to the fire to warm them. Christy followed suit, but slower, still deep in thought.

  Lawrence stood and pulled the kettle over the fire. “You are worried.” It wasn’t a question.

  Christy nodded. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “My dear boy, I don’t know that there is anything you can do.”

  Christy’s frown deepened. “She has no choice.”

  Lawrence kept his voice as gentle as he could. “She could have stayed with you.”

  “No. She couldn’t. He would just beat her again. He’s her husband.”

  “Come, sit down.” Lawrence guided him to what had become ‘his’ chair by the fire. “Get warm.” He waited for the kettle to boil in silence, then poured the water into the tea pot. He took time getting out cups and saucers, wandering to the pantry for milk, and then poured and handed Christy a cup.

 
“I don’t understand how someone as lovely as your mother came to be with a brute like March. Forgive me for saying…”

  Christy looked up. “My father died and left us in debt when I was out of the country. Seemingly, March’s wife died and left him with children. It seemed practical. Apparently.”

  “But…your father died whilst you were away?”

  Christy nodded, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “My mother wrote to me, but I never got it. I spent some time in Europe, and by the time I got back he was gone.” The guilt in his eyes made Lawrence’s chest hurt.

  “I sometimes think he hates my mother because she is not his wife.”

  “And your mother misses your father?” Lawrence asked.

  Christy’s eyes filled with tears and Lawrence pretended not to notice by burying his face in his teacup.

  “Yes,” he said eventually.

  Lawrence hurt for him. He had no idea what to do, or what to say. Unless his mother decided she wished to leave March, there seemed little to offer. And even if she did, it would be fraught with difficulty as March was clearly prone to outbursts of violence.

  He looked at Christy’s forlorn figure.

  “We should eat,” Lawrence said, getting up and gathering spoons and bowls. He shared what was left of the stew between them, added a hunk of bread, and they sat in the leather chairs and ate off their knees.

  “I’ll wager your mother would be horrified if she saw us doing this?” Lawrence said, gesturing to their informal dining arrangement.

  Christy smiled and nodded.

  They ate in silence, and when the bowls were emptied and the tea drunk, they sat staring into the flickering firelight.

  “I should go to bed,” Christy said, making no effort to move.

  “It is late,” Lawrence said.

  Neither moved for some time, both lost in thought. Eventually, Christy sighed and got to his feet. Lawrence stood with him and resisted the urge to touch him.

  They faced each other on the rug in front of the fire.

  “Thank you for today,” Christy said, tilting his head and smiling sadly. Firelight flickered over his face, making his eyes shine.

  “For what?” Lawrence’s voice was gruff.

  “For helping my mother, coming with me…” He shrugged and then looked shy, dropping his gaze to the floor. “And I’m sorry about…” He waved his hand over his head.

  Lawrence had no idea what he was talking about so he frowned and shrugged. Christy flushed. “The mistletoe kiss. I’m sorry about that. Out of order. Sorry.”

  Lawrence couldn’t breathe. The moment flooded over him again, and he could feel the warmth of Christy’s lips against his skin and he had to fight not to touch the spot again. The air between them that had been warm and companionable was instantly tense. Lawrence swallowed; Christy licked his lips and his breathing seemed to hitch.

  “Well…good night…”

  “Good night,” Lawrence said.

  Christy looked at him for a moment before turning and trudging up the stairs.

  Lawrence slumped in the chair, trembling all over.

  He’d been fooling himself. Fooling himself for months. Convincing himself that Christy was just a good employee and a lad in need of some help and support. Fooling himself.

  Lawrence put his face in his hands. He wanted him. Wanted him badly. The kiss had simply catapulted him into a vortex of desire and feelings, so long buried they threatened now to overwhelm him. He thought of the brown paper packet in the sideboard cupboard. Not the actions of a friend and employer. More the actions of a lover.

  Lawrence sucked in a breath and scrubbed his face. If Christy discerned something of his nature, he couldn’t bear it.

  He sat and stared into the fire for a long time.

  Christmas Eve in the shop was bright and busy. Filled with laughter and excitement. Christy flew about, rushing from customer to customer, serving tea and slightly misshapen biscuits that were a tiny bit scorched at the edges. He and Mr. Fenton had made them first thing that morning. He could see he was going to have to nip back and make some more they were going so well. People loved the holly and more than one person had been the recipient of an enthusiastic kiss under the mistletoe. Mr. Fenton didn’t smile a great deal, but seemed to get into the spirit of things, and all in all, it was a splendid morning.

  By lunchtime the shop was still pleasantly full, and Mrs. Anderton had taken up residence in one of Christy’s chairs with a cup of chocolate, much to Christy’s delight. People sat and stood around sipping drinks and eating biscuits and then piled up their purchases for Mr. Fenton to wrap and record in his ledger. Mrs. Anderton had tied a length of red ribbon around Mr. Fenton’s sleeve and he’d actually left it there, huge bow and all.

  It was wonderful. Christy helped a customer to the door with a huge pile of books and sundry items and grinned back at Mr. Fenton who smiled. They held each other’s gaze across the shop for a long moment in a way that made Christy’s heart thump. He brought out more tea and the last of the biscuits, and three gentlemen started to sing Christmas Carols with Mrs. Anderton making the shop feel absolutely perfect. Christy was joining in with “God Rest You Merry Gentlemen,” and even Mr. Fenton seemed to be humming, when it all came crashing down.

  The door slammed open making everyone jump, freeze, and stare. A blast of icy cold wind spread through the shop. The singers stopped, a lady shrieked, and there, in the door, stood Stanley March. Eyes bloodshot, filthy hat at an angle. The stench of ale and gin seeped into the shop as he stood there, swaying on his feet.

  Christy wanted to die.

  “Ere. You. Money,” he slurred, holding onto the door jamb with one hand and gesturing angrily at Christy with the other.

  Every eye in the shop that had been fixed in fascinated horror on March turned with excruciating interest to Christy.

  Face flaming, Christy strode over and put a hand on his chest to move him outside. “Yes,” he hissed. “I will bring it tonight when I have been paid. I told you I would.”

  March shoved him off, hard. Hard enough to make Christy stumble. “Want it now,” he snarled.

  Christy saw Mr. Fenton move from behind his desk and he wanted to beg him not to intervene. Just to let him get March out.

  “Very well,” Christy said, fury making his voice tremble. “Wait outside and I will bring it to you.”

  “What is going on here?” Mr. Fenton’s voice was its iciest best.

  March dragged his eyes from Christy to fix on Mr. Fenton and Christy wanted the ground to open up.

  “An’ who are you?” March’s belligerence almost undid Christy. No one spoke to Mr. Fenton like that. No one.

  “Eh? Who do you think you are, little man?” March swayed and poked Mr. Fenton in the chest. Mr. Fenton didn’t move. March then narrowed his eyes for a moment before a nasty smile spread over his drunkard face.

  “Well, I never…well, I never…I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you…” He broke off, laughed, and staggered further into the shop. Christy grabbed him and tried to bundle him out of the door, but March stood firm.

  “Vere Street. White swan.” March started to laugh in a wheezy, drunken way. “Vere Street,” he said again to the people in the shop as if it should mean something. It apparently meant something to Mr. Fenton as his face was white and a muscle ticked along his jaw. His grey eyes were glacial.

  When nobody answered, March rolled his eyes and swayed some more. “This bloke ‘ere,” he said and pointed at Mr. Fenton. “This one as is all fancy…e’s a fucking molly.” March set about cackling with laughter. A rumble of disquiet came from the customers, and when March staggered about laughing, Christy took the opportunity to push him from the shop. He got him outside, got hold of his cravat, and pushed his face close.

  “Get out of here, you bloody oaf. If you ever show your face here again there will be no more money from me. Get it?” He shook him and March staggered. “You pathetic excuse for a man.”

  “Whassup? M
arch said and puckered his lips. Wanna kiss? Always thought you was a molly too?”

  Christy was burning. He got back up into March’s face and twisted his grip on his cravat. “Takes one to know one. You been up Vere Street too, Stanley? Hmm? That what you do when you disappear?”

  March snarled and made a grab for Christy, but he was too drunk to do anything. Christy pushed him hard and when he stumbled, Christy grabbed his arm, twisted it up his back, and marched him away from the shop. He pushed hard, and March fell to the ground, banging his head hard and scraping his cheek. He roared impotently, and tried to stand, but Christy left him there like an insect flailing on its back.

  Christy ran back into the shop to find the customers filing out onto the street.

  “I am so sorry,” he said to them. A few smiled and shook his hand, a lady patted him on the arm. “You’d best see to Mr. Fenton, my dear. He’s a little upset.”

  Christy pushed through to find Mr. Fenton clutching his desk with one hand, ordering the customers out.

  “Go on. That’s it for today, the show is over.”

  “Mr. Fenton,” he said and walked over to him. “Mr. Fenton…”

  “You too. Haven’t you heard enough?”

  “Hush,” Christy whispered, glaring at him.

  He turned to the rest of the customers. “I am so sorry for that. The man is a drunkard and a fool.”

  “I’ll say,” one gentleman rumbled. “Fenton, pay no heed. No one else has. Let me pay you for these.” He held up some books. Mr. Fenton looked about to throw the man out, so Christy jumped in and took them and his money.

  Mrs. Anderton surprised him when she appeared by his elbow, took Mr. Fenton by the arm, and guided him into the back room. Christy was astonished that he let her. He turned his attention to the people in the shop.