A Clockwork Christmas Angel

A Clockwork Christmas Angel

J.W. Stacks

A Clockwork Christmas Angel

A Books to Go Now Publication

Copyright
©
J.W. Stacks
2012

Books to Go Now

For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [email protected]

First eBook Edition –December 2012

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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Dedication

To Melissa and the press gang.

London 1866

Please don’t let the dreams come again
.

It became her mantra and most fervent prayer. She stove off sleep for over two days, driving herself until sheer exhaustion forced her into dreamless unconsciousness. Her body surrendered to its demands. She avoided looking in the mirror, fearing the frightful appearance of her sunken eyes and gaunt expression, and slid underneath the bedcovers.

Please don’t let the dreams come again
.

She closed her eyes.

They returned with a sadistic vengeance—the alarmed calls from the sidewalks—the thunderous impact of forged hooves on cobblestone. The noxious stench of burning coal, the relentless pulse of spring-driven pistons, the mangling of flesh—the cracking of delicate bones. And the pain—always the pain.

Abigail started upright in her bed with a cry, sweat molding her nightgown to her body despite the chill permeating the room. She ran her hands through her hair, the faint
tick tick
sound of her arm reminding her of the origin of her nightmares. Her brass limb gleamed faintly in the moonlight. It was a beautiful monstrosity, unmistakably feminine and a reminder she was damned in the eyes of God.
Thou shall not make for thyself any graven image,
drummed in her brain of its own volition.

Hope of an undisturbed night was extinguished with a groan as she slipped from under the linens and made her way to the windowsill. The wood floor, cold against her bare feet, failed to penetrate her glacial melancholy. She had once been Abigail Hogarth, a renowned theater sensation. The house filled nightly with an audience eager to see the woman
The Times
proclaimed as “the actress of our glorious century.” Admirers and lavish gifts flowed then like a never-ending fountain. Now her life was a cheap room in a ramshackle boarding house. Silks and the latest in Paris fashions had been replaced with oft-darned calico.

It was Christmas Eve. The view from her window did nothing for her spirits. The pristine white snow she remembered from her childhood was now tinged with perpetual soot that belched from the smokestacks that had taken over London like an invading army welcomed in to despoil and pillage. The church bells tolled two o’clock without an answering chime from her own nightstand clock. Abigail sighed. The cheap timepiece was as broken as she was.

She vividly remembered the night it happened. How could she not? Seared into her mind with the intensity of a hot poker, it still pained her. She’d garnered extra attention for her portrayal of Grace in
London Assurance
and, following that evening’s performance, despite her protests of needing to retire early, had been playfully bullied to accompany several members of their company out for the evening. She shouldn’t have imbibed so heavily. The lingering pleasure of a standing ovation, combined with the spirited conversation and laughter, robbed her common sense—the same common sense already under assault by her increasing exhaustion—and aided no doubt by several glasses of sherry.

Her metallic fingers idly ran along the window pane, tracing imaginary flecks of snow as they fell, painfully aware of the lack of the sensation of cold in her deformity. Abigail vaguely remembered their little band of drunken fools spilling out into the night, high on life and spirits. None of them should have been allowed to go anywhere or to be trusted with anything short of falling into bed, but she tottered out into the street to hail a cab, oblivious to the steam carriage barreling down upon her. Only the cries of the passersby and the shouts of the carriage driver penetrated her stupor and saved her life. The lead steam horse merely clipped her, sending her spinning and down to the stones and cutting off her slurred curse of indignation. Only her arm had suffered the agony of being ground underneath the horrendous weight of hundreds of stones worth of pig iron and brass.

The next few weeks were a merciful blur of laudanum dreams broken by the horror of waking up without a flesh and blood arm attached, a patchwork mental quilt of anguish. She remembered sobbing uncontrollably while holding the shards of a teacup, tea stains on her nightgown after her hand had shattered the delicate china. A yellow bowl of blue fruit. A needle full of some kind of narcotic. She twisted a doorknob off. A octopus. In a fit of anger, she drove her fist through a brick wall. They restrained her to a bed after that episode. A man with a monotone voice who she believed was a doctor. Nothing made sense, everything jumbled together like a pile of alphabet blocks that spelt nonsense. There were days she had problems distinguishing the reality of her experiences with what might have been phantoms of her own mind.
Abigail never found out who financed the expensive surgery but, spurning what had obviously been intended as a act of mercy, she’d cursed her unknown benefactor ever since. The doctors, alarmed at her deepening fits of melancholy and one attempt to poison herself with a carelessly unattended bottle of medicine, had her committed to a sanatorium.
If her drugged state in the hospital had been nerve-wracking, the sanitorium became a terror out of her deepest dreams. Her days consisted of staring at bare white walls and the outside world through iron bars over her window. Nights were worse as she was lulled to sleep by the cries, shrieks, and screams of the hopelessly mad. Being the only sane resident amongst the lunatics threatened to make one desire to join their delusions, if only as a escape from the torment. She would have poetically strangled herself with her new arm but they “thoughtfully” let it run down and did not rewind it, further reinforcing in her mind that it was a dead thing grafted to her at the shoulder. Several months passed before she was declared cured of her hysteria and released.

Abigail took a shuddering breath and pressed her forehead against the fragile barrier between her and the dirty metropolis. Unable to deal with the certain ruin of her career, she fled. No one would want an actress who wasn’t whole or possibly insane. Over time she had pawned off most of her belongings, uncaring that the villains were giving her next to nothing for her valuables, before making her way to this rundown room. The only thing she kept was a small box that contained playbills of her performances. As often as she wanted to hurt them into the fireplace, something kept her from doing it.
She wasn’t sure how much lower she could go or even if this Christmas Eve would be her last. She wondered why she hadn’t killed herself in the months since she had been released and could only come to the conclusion that she was a craven coward. At one point she might have claimed that her belief in God forbid taking one’s life but her faith died in the sanatorium. Surely no sane supreme being would allow such things to befall those who had been devout unless he was a cruel and malicious devil.

Instead she moped until the first rays of sunlight broke through the gray clouds. Unable to bear the drab four walls any longer, Abigail dressed and concealed her deformity in a sling before venturing out to purchase her usual meager food for the day. Her daily perambulations were a dreamlike experience for her. It was if she were apart from the teeming crowds that bustled along the street. It might be madness but she walked along as if they were not there, ignoring the jostling and occasional greetings and apologies. They did not impinge upon her world nor did she choose to take part in theirs.

The market was especially busy as shoppers making their last minute preparations for the next day were everywhere. The noises of geese and fowl ready for slaughter intermixed with the cacophony of shouted transactions and the hawking of wares. Colorful ribbons clashed with the drab clothing that marked this section of the city. The smell of roasting chestnuts reached her nose and her stomach rumbled at the memory of how much she enjoyed them as a child. She wondered if she might indulge herself but a glance at her coin purse dissuaded that fantasy.

****

“Abby?”

The insistent brogue cut through her reflections. It sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it. She chose to ignore it.

“Abby! Is that you?”

A hand grasped her sleeve and Abigail turned to look into the questioning face of Maggie Talbot, one of her companions that fateful night. The look of stunned recognition on her old friend’s face undid her.

“By the heavens, it is you—” the other woman exclaimed, “Bless me I never miss a face!”

“You’re... mistaken,” Abigail tried to pull her arm free. “I... must go.”

The grip on her good arm increased.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Maggie protested. “Not until you tell me where you disappeared to!”

Abigail inwardly groaned. Maggie was formidably stubborn when she latched onto something. Abigail had learned to hide her beauty behind a mask of cold indifference but Maggie’s fiery tresses, scandalous good looks, and increasing volume drew attention. Abigail shrank from it as the guard she’d put up against the world began to crumble.

“Abby, what’s wrong?” Maggie’s voice turned uncertain as she saw the fear creep into her old friend’s eyes. “Come on. We’ll get you off the street and a spot of tea into you. It looks like you need it.”

Against her better judgment, Abigail allowed herself to be steered to a nearby tavern where the barkeep scowled at them for ordering tea but he disappeared into the back after a grateful smile from Maggie. Thankfully it was too early for anyone else to patronize the gin house. “Good God,” Abigail thought, “she can still twist a man around her finger. She hasn’t changed a bit since I saw her last.”

And indeed she hadn’t. Her red locks still threatened to spill out of whatever fancy hat she tucked it under and no amount of pins could ever bring it to bay. Her emerald green eyes lost none of their infinite mirth and her button nose and pert lips were the same as always—a dangerous weapon against which no man had ever been victorious. Under her beauty there lurked a mouth that could scandalize the coarsest sailor to ever sail the seven seas, which was only matched by the size of her libido. Maggie blamed her da. Abby believed she just enjoyed being shocking for the sheer enjoyment of it. God bless her though. For all her rough edges you couldn’t ask for a more stalwart companion.

Maggie took Abigail’s hand into hers, breaking her reflections, and seemed to notice the sling for the first time. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Why didn’t you come back to the theater? We all thought you eloped and, when nothing showed up in the papers, we figured it was something really nice and scandalous. Then I find you here today, hurt and... well... in desperate need of a new frock.”

Abigail stared at Maggie’s hand clutched around hers and remained silent. “How did you find me?” she finally said.

“A pipe under the street burst and my cab had to take another route. I saw you from the window. Now stop trying to avoid my question.”

“I got hurt, Maggie,” Abigail said quietly. “Very badly.”

“Your arm?” Maggie’s voice had lost its playful lilt but she paused only for a moment. “Why didn’t you come back?”

“I’m... not whole. Nobody wants to see a... cripple.”

Maggie pursed her lips. “Even if that were true, why did you leave us? We all cared about you even if you were the second-best actress.” Her attempt at levity fell flat. “Why don’t you come back? Even if you don’t act, I’m sure that Charles can find you a job at the theater...”

Abigail fought back a sob. “I don’t want anybody’s pity.”

“But you’re going to wallow in your own?” Maggie retorted sternly and then softened her expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Abigail nodded and fell silent as the barkeep delivered two steaming cups to their table and, observing the odd silence and sniffles from one of the women, took the better part of valor.
The man grimaced. Belligerent drunkards he could handle but womenfolk blubbering was not something he wanted to be party to in his establishment.

Maggie took a deep breath. “Abby, I’m having a Christmas Eve gathering this evening at my home. Why don’t you come?” Maggie rushed her next words as Abigail felt her face go slack. “It’ll just be a small group. I’ll be with you the whole time and, if you start to feel badly, I’ll take you home. Please, Abby. I can’t bear to see you like this and alone.”

“Maggie, I couldn’t...” she began.

“You can’t avoid the world forever. No matter how much you want to.”
“I don’t want to avoid the world. I wish to not be a part of it.”
Her friend gaped at her blunt words, stunned for once into silence.
Abigail stared down at the table, her complexion pale. The words she dared not even acknowledge had bubbled up out of their deep hole in her soul and into the daylight.

Abigail watched her friend’s losing battle with her emotions. “”How
dare
you. You... you...
selfish...
little
girl... Dammit!” She had never seen Maggie’s face twisted into a such grimace and the growing crimson flush threatened to match her hair.

Abigail flinched.
“You don’t get that! You had friends! I... looked up to you, and you... want... You were always the strong...” Tears welled up in Maggie’s eyes. “Blast you!” Maggie sobbed and stood up.

“Maggie! Please!” Abigail cried out as fear took a sudden and chilling hold. Her last connection to her old life was about to disappear, probably forever. Was it really what she wanted? If Maggie left, there would be nothing left. No past. No future. Just a living death. “I will hold you to your promise,” she said softly.

“What?” Maggie turned back to her.

“I will go if you keep your word.”

Maggie sniffed and, as if in affirmation, placed both of her hands on Abigail’s. “Let’s leave this place. We need to get you a real dress and this swill passing for tea is making me bawl like a newborn.”

****

Abigail wondered if Maggie was a witch. She stared back at the strange woman in the mirror. The royal blue dress was not something that she would have chosen yet Maggie made her look splendid in it with a little make-up and a skilled hand with her hair. The faint ticking of her clockwork in her ear felt almost bearable as she gingerly patted her hair, making sure all the pins were securely in place.

“Stop fussing with it!” Maggie admonished. “I’m not going to repair it again!”

“Oh, Maggie, it’s perfect!”

“Are you certain you won’t reconsider the gloves?”

Abigail took a deep breath.
Slow and steady wins the race
. “Yes.”

Maggie took a look at the elbow-length gloves Abby wore. It had taken her far longer than usual to find a frock that would match them. When she had seen Abby’s arm while dressing her, she had found it fascinating and had to bite back the dozens of questions that leapt to her tongue. Tonight had to be perfect if she wanted any chance of saving her friend from herself. “I wouldn’t worry about it, dear. They won’t be paying you any attention.”

Abigail had to choke back a laugh as Maggie thrust her chest forward showing off her cleavage in the emerald green dress that complimented her hair. This was the banter she suddenly realized she missed most of all. Maggie was the first to trade friendly insults. It was if a locked door had opened and a whiff of fresh air penetrated the gloom, displacing the dust and age. Perhaps Maggie was right and she needed to get back into the world if only for one night.

“Why, Miss Talbot, are you hoping to land a Baron?”

“Miss Hogarth, with these, I’ll settle for no less than an Earl!”

“You always had a high opinion of yourself,” Abigail grinned and returned her attention to the mirror. Her ice blue eyes were brought out by eye shadow and mascara. Her cheekbones that became so pronounced over the last months were masterfully minimized and the jumble of brunette hair had been washed and combed as smooth as the finest silk from China. She was beautiful once again. A monster still, but a beautiful one.

Maggie’s head jerked at the loud sniffle. “Abigail Hogarth! If you ruin your face by crying, I’ll never speak to you again!”

“Sorry,” Abby fought her tears back. “Thank you.”

“Hmmm?” Maggie demurred from applying lipstick. “For what? I used to dress you all the time, remember?”

The two women exchanged glances.

“For everything.” Abby said.

“You’re welcome,” Maggie kissed her on the cheek. “Christmas Eve is waning fast, Miss Talbot. Shall we sally forth and conquer?”

****