A Victorian Christmas (31 page)

With the remaining melted butter, thoroughly coat the insides of several crumpet rings, 3-inch flan rings, or clean tuna cans with both ends removed. Also use the melted butter to grease the bottom of a heavy frying pan or griddle. Arrange as many rings as possible in the pan.

Over low heat, heat the rings in the pan. Pour enough batter into each ring to fill it halfway. Cook for 5 to 7 minutes, until bubbles appear and burst on the surface. Remove rings and turn the crumpets. Cook 2 to 3 minutes more, until lightly browned.

Repeat with remaining batter. Serve crumpets hot and generously buttered.

BEHOLD THE LAMB

The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look!
The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!”

J
OHN 1:29

PROLOGUE

“I won’t forget what you taught me,” the boy whispered as he looked up into his father’s blue eyes. Flakes of powdery snow drifted down like confectioner’s sugar, settling on the shoulders of the two figures crouched in the shadows. Just over the top of an evergreen hedge, a full moon gleamed as bright and silver as a new shilling.

“And what did I teach you, Mick?” the father asked.

“That I must never be discovered.”

“That’s right, lad.” The man bent and tousled his son’s thick brown hair. With grimy fingers, he opened a burlap sack. “Now tell me again—what are we goin’ to put in ’ere?”

“Silver forks and knives and spoons. Silver candlesticks. Silver coins. Silver trays, teapots, and anythin’ else we can find.”

“Good lad. Them silver things makes a bit o’ noise, they does, so you must be quiet as a kitten, eh?”

“Yes, Papa.” Mick pulled his stockings up over his knees, but an icy chill crept through ragged holes in the knitted wool. “I’m very cold, Papa. I want to go ’ome.”

“Soon enough, Mick. But we’ve come all this way out into the countryside to do our work. Are you ready, my boy?”

“I’m ready, Papa.” Mick peered around the corner of the tall hedge and studied the rambling manor house a short distance away. In the moonlight, its pale stonework gleamed a soft silver as it settled deep in the silvery snow. An icy pond stretched out— slick and coated with silver—in front of the manor house, and the boy wondered if rich people made everything they owned from that precious metal.

Shivering, he slipped his hand into his father’s warm palm. Though he was proud to be considered old enough to work, Mick knew this was a dangerous business. His father had been home for only a month after serving a two-year sentence in the London gaol. Not long before their father was released, Mick’s only brother had been captured by a constable while doing a job at a shop on Regent Street. Barely fifteen, he’d been shipped off to Australia to build a railroad. Mick didn’t know if magistrates would send six-year-old boys away on a ship to Australia. But he didn’t like the idea at all. He would miss his mummy.

“Now then, lad, you see them bars?” His father whispered the question against Mick’s ear as he pointed out the wroughtiron grillwork covering the ground-floor windows. “See the way it curves round there? I want you to slip in through that little space until you’re standin’ on the windowsill. Then push open the glass pane and let yourself down inside the kitchen. After you make sure nobody’s about, I want you to ’urry across and open the door where I’ll be waitin’. You understand that, Mick?”

His father gripped his shoulder so tightly that it hurt. The boy nodded, though he didn’t see how he was ever going to fit through that tiny space between the iron bars.

“And what did I teach you, Mick? Tell me again.”

“Never be discovered.” The boy repeated the admonition, silently reminding himself that he must be as quiet as a wee kitten, moving about on soft tiptoes, never making a sound.

“Go on then, lad. That’s my boy.”

His father gave him a rough shove, and Mick scampered through the snow toward the manor house. As he crouched beside the window, his heartbeat hammered in his head. Papa had assured him the family who owned the house had all gone out to a Christmas party and wouldn’t be back until much later. But what if someone were still about? A small child might have stayed behind. Or a cook preparing a pudding for tomorrow’s lunch.

Mick leaned his cold cheek against the frigid iron. Through a crack in the glass, he could smell something wonderful. His small, empty stomach gave a loud gurgle, and he caught his breath in fear. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his father waving him onward.

“Never be discovered,” Mick whispered as he slipped one leg through the curved place in the grille. He was going to do better than his brother, he decided. He was not going to be sent away to Australia. He would be so quiet that he would never have to build a railroad across the hot desert far away from his mummy.

Mick worked his other leg through the grille and then edged himself down into the cramped space beside the closed window. Holding his breath, he twisted one arm until it fit through. The other arm took more work. When his elbow bumped against the glass, he stiffened in terror.

If Mick was sent away, who would look after Mummy as she lay in bed coughing and coughing? Who would wipe away the blood with a rag? Who would stir the thin broth and keep coal on the fire? Papa was usually at the Boar’s Head Tavern talking about business with his friends, or working his way along the riverfront where he sold his goods. Someone had to look after Mummy.

Taking a determined breath, the boy twisted and turned his head against the iron bars as he tried to pull it through the curve. One of his ears caught on a lump of jagged iron, but it tore loose as his head finally popped free of the bars. Mick imagined showing the wound to his mummy like a badge of honor. She would smile and pat his hand.

Bare fingers against the cold glass, Mick gave the window a gentle push. To his relief, it swung wide. Instantly, the aroma of a hundred magical delights wafted up through the air. The smell of freshly baked bread and apple tarts and roasted turkey and clove-studded ham and things Mick couldn’t even name swirled around him like a dream. Catching himself before he exclaimed in wonder, he clung to the wrought-iron grille.

“Never be discovered,” he mouthed again. Perched on the windowsill, he spotted a long table just below. A layer of fine, white flour covered the pine surface where a cook had been rolling out dough. Mick knew better than to tread in the flour and then track it across the kitchen floor.

Lowering himself down the wall, he balanced for a moment on the edge of the table and then leapt gingerly to the floor. The cavernous kitchen was dark, save the remains of a fire that glowed brightly in the grate. Though he ached to warm himself, Mick crept across the chilly black-and-white tiles toward the far door.

He was a kitten, he told himself, and far too clever to make noise. Reaching the door, he stood on tiptoe and drew back the bar that held it shut. Like a stealthy black cat, Mick’s father appeared suddenly through the opening. He pressed his back flat against the kitchen wall and gave the boy’s hair another tousle.

This was wonderful, Mick thought as he followed his father up a steep flight of stairs and past a green curtain of heavy felt. He was a part of the business now! He was doing quite well, too, copying the way his papa walked along the edge of the corridor, staying in the shadows, making not a single sound. They were a team, and soon they would have enough money to buy Mummy some porridge and a blanket. And they would buy a whole sack of coal for the fire. Maybe Mick would even get a new pair of stockings.

“Come in ’ere, now,” Papa whispered against the boy’s ear as he pulled him into a huge parlor. For a moment, Mick could only stare, blinking in shock. The whole room was blanketed in warmth and richness. Heavy red velvet curtains hung over the windows, thick patterned carpets covered the floors, and immense tapestries draped the walls. Portraits and landscapes hung by cords from picture rails. Shelves of books stood sentry near the doors. Like the women who spent their evenings in the alleyways near Mick’s flat, the furniture lounged about the rooms—brocade settees, wicker chaises, sumptuous chairs, tables covered by layers of silk and taffeta.

“The dinin’ room will be that way,” Mick’s father whispered as he pointed toward a distant door. “I’ll collect the silverware and the candlesticks. You stay in ’ere and gather up clocks and snuffboxes and anythin’ else you find.”

“Silver?” Mick clarified. He wanted to be sure he got it right.

“That’s it.” His father gave him a grin that sent a thrill of warmth right down to Mick’s toes. “You’re a good lad.”

As his father crept away, Mick began to slip across the parlor in search of things to put in the burlap bag. He found a small silver box on a table, and he dropped it into the sack. Then he spotted a fine clock under a glass dome. Careful to make not a sound, he lifted the dome, gathered the clock into his arm, and set the dome down again. He was doing very well indeed.

On a desk, he found a silver pen. He slipped it into his bag as he stepped toward something silver that seemed to dangle in the moonlight. Stopping before the object, he studied it carefully. Egg-shaped, it was pointed at each end, and it twisted and spun gently in the cool night air. Gingerly, Mick put out his finger and touched the thing. It swung away and then danced back again.

How was this magical thing suspended in midair? Mick took a step back and peered upward into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he slowly realized the silver ball was hanging from the branch of a tree. And beside it hung a red ball. And a gold one. Tiny white candles, too, had been balanced on little clips all over the tree. The more Mick looked at the tree, the more he saw. There were strings of cranberries and long strands of crystal beads and tiny paper cutouts of a man with a long, white beard and a red suit.

Mick thought about taking one of the silver balls for his father’s sack. Surely that would buy the finest wool blanket in all London. But what if Mick gave a pull and the whole tree fell down? And why did the rich people grow trees in their parlors? And why did they hang silver balls on them? And who was the man in the red suit?

Moving on, Mick found another silver box and a pair of silver scissors lying beside an embroidery hoop. He tucked them into his sack. He was almost back to the main door when he noticed a strange little house sitting on a table.

Mick peered at the house, wondering if tiny people might be living inside it—tiny people with their own silver boxes and parlor trees. As his eyes focused on the shapes, he realized that indeed it was filled with people. But they were only statues carved out of wood and painted in bright colors.

A mummy and a papa stood near a small box filled with hay. Their baby lay on the hay with a white cloth wrapped around him. The child looked sweet and kind, and something inside Mick longed to pick him up and hold him. Next to the mummy and papa stood three kings, who were also looking down at the baby boy. At the other side of the little house, Mick spotted a man carrying a long stick. He was standing next to a donkey and a cow. And right at his feet lay a tiny lamb.

“What did you get, lad?” The voice at Mick’s ear nearly startled him into dropping his sack.

“I have silver, Papa.”

“Let me see it, then.” His father held out the burlap sack and peered into its depths.

“That’s a clock,” Mick whispered as he pointed out the prize.

“Good boy. And I got me a load of silverware and a couple of candlesticks.”

“Can we buy Mummy a blanket now?”

“Aye, we can.”

“What about some of that tonic from Mrs. Wiggins? It ’elps Mummy not to cough so much.”

“We’ll see. I’ve got to pay off some debts at the Boar’s ’ead first.” The father stared at his son a moment. “You’ve done good this time round, Mick. Why don’t you choose somethin’ for yourself, eh? I’ll just take a peek at the master’s desk while you decide what you want.”

Mick held his breath as he watched his father walk away. Something for himself? A loaf of bread from the kitchen would be nice. Or maybe he should take a soft pillow from the settee. Either one would make his mummy feel better.