Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (20 page)

“Are you all right?” Jane asked in a whisper.

“Yes, I am, thank you,” Tim replied. “It was just that mentioning my father and Mr. Scrooge brought back some memories.”

“You must tell me more about them sometime,” Jane said.

“I will,” Tim promised. He signaled the fiddler, who took up a position next to the Christmas tree while William, Henry, and several of the male guests moved tables and chairs aside to clear space in the center of the room. The fiddler then struck up his first dance tune, and soon most of the guests were paired up and twirling happily.

Tim looked at Jane and saw the expectation on her face. “I'm sorry, Jane, but I never dance. As I told you, I was crippled as a child, and my legs were weak for years afterward. I never learned to dance, and haven't dared to try it.”

“My mother can't dance, and that doesn't stop her,” Jane noted. “See, over there.” She nodded toward Mrs. Crompton. The woman, her massive crinoline swaying this way and that in response to her uncoordinated movements, pranced about the room, dragging her husband along with her. The other dancers, having instantly realized their peril, kept an eye on her progress and parted like water before a ship's bow whenever they saw her approach. Tim laughed.

“You can't possibly do worse than that, Tim,” Jane assured him. “Besides, no one will be watching you. They're all too busy trying to stay out of Mother's way.”

Conceding the point, Tim asked Jane to dance, and she, of course, accepted. “Just try to follow my lead,” Jane told him. “Mother put me through years of dancing lessons, not to mention French lessons, etiquette lessons, and anything else she thought would make me a proper lady. I even played the piano for a while, but I was probably worse at that than you think you are at dancing.”

Thus reassured, Tim did his best. He knew that he was not dancing well, but Jane did not seem to mind, and he was happy to be with her and soon stopped worrying about where he placed his feet or whether anyone was watching his sincere but incompetent efforts.

At eleven o'clock, Tim's brother Peter approached, a sleeping child in his arms, and announced that it was time to take his leave.

“Will you be coming to dinner on Christmas Day?” Peter inquired, referring to the annual family meal hosted by Mrs. Cratchit.

“I plan to,” Tim said, “unless I'm called out on some unexpected emergency.”

“Let's hope that doesn't happen,” Peter said. “It's been hard enough lately getting the whole family together. I'd hate to miss a chance for all of us to be together on Christmas.” Realizing that Tim, who had been the Cratchit most frequently absent from family gatherings, might have been hurt by his inadvertent remark, Peter decided to compensate by helping his shy brother's apparent romance.

“We'd love to have you for dinner, too, miss,” he said to Jane.

“Thank you,” Jane replied, not wishing to commit to attending without Tim's invitation.

Peter's departure was followed over the next half hour by the remaining guests, Tim and Jane standing in the foyer to bid them good night and merry Christmas while William tried to figure out which coat belonged to which guest. After everyone had departed except Mrs. Cratchit and Belinda, who were staying overnight, and the Cromptons, Tim excused himself and went upstairs to get the gift he had bought for Jane.

“We're going out to the coach, Jane,” Archie Crompton told his daughter. “We'll wait for you there.”

“We can wait in here, where it's warm, until Jane is ready to leave,” Mrs. Crompton remarked. “Why should I freeze outside?”

“We will be in the coach,” Archie repeated, taking his wife by the arm and tugging her toward William, who was holding her fur coat. Tim returned just in time to say good night and thank them for coming.

“It was a wonderful party,” Archie Crompton said. “Thank you.” Mrs. Crompton did not utter a word. She had kept an eye on her daughter throughout the evening, and had been disappointed to see her obvious joy and friendly interaction with Tim and the guests. Evidently her ploy with James Howard had indeed failed.

William shut the door behind the Cromptons and went into the dining room, where Mrs. Cratchit, Belinda, Bridget, and Henry were engaged in cleanup duties. Ginny had offered to help, but Mrs. Cratchit suggested that she put Jonathan and Lizzie to bed. Lizzie had barely been able to stagger back to their room, having worn herself out with overeating and dancing with Tim's nephews. Upon entering the dining room, William discreetly closed the door to the foyer to give Tim and Jane privacy.

“I got you a gift to thank you for being my hostess,” Tim said, handing Jane a parcel. She untied the string, peeled back the brown paper wrapping, and opened the wooden container she found inside. She carefully removed the music box.

“It's beautiful,” she said. “Thank you!”

“Wind it and it plays music,” Tim said, feeling embarrassed for saying something so obvious and therefore ridiculous. But Jane seemed to take no notice, and wound the metal stem underneath the box. Together they watched the colorful dancers circle the Christmas tree to the tinkling tune.

As they admired the music box, Tim cleared his throat and decided to take the plunge. “I had a marvelous time,” he said, “and it is thanks to you. I want you to know that Mr. James Howard has a rival for your affections, and that I am prepared to meet his challenge.”

“Two suitors?” Jane said with a laugh. “You needn't worry about Mr. Howard, Tim. I already told him that I wasn't interested. I always preferred you. Our time together tonight has made that very clear to me. But it isn't proper for a woman to press a man if he's not interested.”

“I know, Jane. We can't break society's rules, at least not all of them. That's why I'd understand if you objected to me because of my past.”

“That doesn't matter, Tim. It's what made you the man you are, and I admire you for being honest about it, and for what you've accomplished.” She met his eyes for a moment, and Tim was left nearly breathless at the sparkle in them. “Now I must say good night,” Jane said reluctantly as the music box spring wound down and the dancers slowed. “My parents are waiting outside.” She repacked the music box and Tim helped her into her coat. They looked at each other for a moment, and each sensed that the other fervently wanted to offer an embrace, but instead they settled for exchanging good nights.

“Jane,” Tim said as she stepped through the door into the icy air. “Would you like to go to church with me on Christmas morning? I go to the ten o'clock service at St. Joseph's. I can fetch you in my carriage. Afterward, if you'd like, I'd be very happy to have you come with me to my family's Christmas dinner.”

“I'd love to,” Jane said, pausing on the top step. She seemed to be about to say something else when they heard a howling sound somewhere nearby. Tim, wondering what it was, told himself that there were no wolves in London and he didn't believe in banshees. Jane, who harbored not the least uncertainty as to the sound's origin, said simply, “That's Mother,” and hurried to the carriage.

“Hurrreeeee! It's cooooold!” Mrs. Crompton shrieked, her head protruding from the carriage's open side window. Tim watched until Jane had disappeared inside the coach. Then he went into the dining room to help with the cleaning up. His mother and Bridget, however, knew how tired he was and ordered him to bed.

On the way upstairs, he thought about the strange vision of his father and Mr. Scrooge. He had dismissed their earlier appearance at Scrooge's former office as a hallucination. That might explain one such event, but not two. And what about the mysterious transformation of his study into a ramshackle room much like his childhood home? Then there was his crutch. He had seen it first in the dream or whatever had occurred in his study. Later, the actual crutch had appeared. All of these things seemed to be connected. The only explanation, other than that he was descending into madness, was that Scrooge and his father were trying to send him a message, or to offer him guidance of some sort. But if so, what exactly did they want him to do?

Chapter 18

S
eated in church on Sunday morning, Tim found it difficult to concentrate on the Reverend Strong's sermon. As usual, Tim had chosen a pew midway between the altar and the rear doors of the church, and he had sung the opening hymn with vigor. Now, however, though he was focusing his eyes on the vicar, the words of the sermon seemed to pass through Tim's head without registering any impression on his mind.

One reason for Tim's distraction was the sermon itself. Every year on the Sunday before Christmas, the Reverend Strong delivered almost the exact same sermon, urging his parishioners to donate generously to a special collection that would be taken afterward to help the parish's poor. Each year Strong altered a few details of the pitiful cases he described in an effort to freshen the effect, but by now Tim had heard the words so often that he could practically recite them himself.

Perhaps, Tim thought, that was why the young women he met socially were of so little interest to him. All were born into London's upper class, and despite his success, at the core of his being Tim was still the poor, crippled child who had so often gone to bed cold and hungry. Associating with people who had for years been considered his betters, and who would have wanted nothing to do with him had he not overcome poverty with the help of Mr. Scrooge, always afflicted him with a profound uneasiness.

Grappling with his thoughts, Tim failed to realize that the vicar's sermon had come to an end until his neighbor in the pew nudged his elbow with the collection plate. As he added his contribution, Tim noted with pleasure that despite its repetitious nature, the sermon had done its job. Instead of the usual Sunday scattering of copper and silver coins, today the plate was heaped high, with several gold pieces gleaming among the heaps of shillings and coppers, the coins supplemented with numerous banknotes.

Tim managed to be more attentive during the rest of the service, and waited inside while most of the parishioners filed out. When he guessed that the throng that usually gathered around the Reverend Strong to compliment him on his sermon had begun to dissipate, Tim rose and made his way out the church's rear doors.

Strong was finishing a chat with a young couple when Tim approached.

“Good morning, Dr. Cratchit,” the vicar greeted him. “What did you think of my sermon this morning?”

“I liked it,” Tim said. “I thought it was very good. Of course, I thought the same way about it when you delivered it last year, and the year before, and the year before that,” he added with a smile.

Strong laughed. “You're the first person to say that. I was starting to wonder whether anyone noticed.”

“They probably have, but are too polite to say so,” Tim observed.

“Well, then, I commend your honesty,” the vicar said.

“I wanted to thank you for helping the young woman whose son I'm treating,” Tim said. “I'd been looking for them for quite a while, and was glad to hear you'd found them. Please allow me to reimburse you for the cab fare you gave them.”

Strong looked puzzled.

“I had heard you were looking for a young woman with a sick child,” the vicar stated, “and I kept an eye out, but I never saw them. It must have been someone else.”

It was Tim's turn to look surprised.

“The woman said that the man was white-haired and elderly,” Tim noted, “and that he had the initials ‘E.S.' on his gold cufflinks, so I assumed it was you.”

“I'm certainly old enough to match that description,” Strong admitted, “and those are my initials. But I don't have them on my cufflinks, and my cufflinks certainly aren't gold.” The vicar pulled back the left sleeve of his clerical robe to reveal a plain brass cufflink. “These are the only ones I own.”

“Now I'm completely mystified as to who helped them,” Tim said.

“Well, I wouldn't worry about it,” Strong advised. “The important thing is that somebody did help. You're a bright fellow. You'll figure out who it is.”

At home, Tim cobbled together his noon meal from the previous evening's leftovers. The servants had the day off, and Bridget had suggested taking Lizzie and Jonathan for a ride in the coach. Ginny liked the idea, but William declined to accompany them, opting instead to spend the afternoon at the pub.

Tim decided to take advantage of the solitude by again trying to find more information that might help him treat Jonathan. His meal completed, he went upstairs to his office, first checking the desktop for Saturday's mail in the hope that von Bergsdorf's letter had arrived. He found it strange to see no letters waiting for him; he could not recall a day when he had not received at least one letter. He walked to his bookshelves and began thumbing through one issue of the
Lancet
after another. Usually he had a good memory of what he had read, and could recall articles relevant to his cases and the edition in which they had appeared. His previous search of the medical journal had turned up little. Still, he had been preoccupied lately, and thought that possibly he had overlooked something that might prove useful.

It took him an hour to review the contents of every issue in his office and, as before, the effort yielded nothing. Tim next turned his attention to several Continental and American medical journals. He subscribed to them, although he seldom had time to do more than scan their contents. He had given them only a cursory glance before. Tim could read French passably well, but found his skills eroding as he spent less time reading in that language, and his German, never good, had degenerated even more. Despite these limitations, he managed to figure out the gist of each article written in those languages, and again came up with nothing that might be of help.

Pushing the stack of journals to one side of his desk, Tim decided to send a second telegram to von Bergsdorf, in case the German had forgotten to reply to the first. He was on his way downstairs when the front door opened and Bridget, Ginny, Jonathan, and Lizzie entered.

Once Lizzie had regaled him with a detailed account of the group's adventures, rattled off at high speed, Tim turned to Bridget.

“Did anything come for me in the post yesterday?” he asked.

“I didn't see anything, but I was busy in the kitchen,” Bridget replied. “Did anyone see the postman?”

Lizzie lowered her head and her shoulders sagged.

“Lizzie?” asked Bridget.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled. “The postman came with some letters, but I went to see what was happening in the kitchen, and forgot about them.”

“Well, go and get them,” Ginny said.

Lizzie rushed off and returned a minute later clutching several envelopes. She handed them to Tim.

“I'm real sorry, Doctor, sir,” she said, near tears. “Are you going to make me leave now?”

Tim crouched down so that his face was level with hers, and took the letters from her extended hand. “Of course not,” he assured her. “You simply forgot about them in all the excitement. I probably would have done the same thing.”

The girl smiled, although a single tear trickled down her cheek.

“You're not mad at me?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

“No, I'm not,” Tim said. “Now why don't you go and get something to eat. You must be hungry after your busy afternoon, and supper is a few hours away.”

Satisfied that Tim truly wasn't angry at her, Lizzie sped off. “There's some of that fancy cake left,” she informed Tim as she ran toward the servants' pantry.

“Then please bring me a piece when you've finished yours,” he called after her.

Bridget and Ginny smiled, and Tim spent several minutes examining Jonathan, who dozed in his mother's arms.

“He certainly hasn't gotten any worse overall,” Tim told Ginny in a whisper, so as not to wake the sleeping child. The statement was true enough, even though he did not mention that it was now clear that the tumor had grown over the past few days. “In fact, his condition is slightly improved since the first time I saw him. If not for the tumor, rest and good nourishment would restore his health in a short time.”

“Have you learned anything more?” Ginny inquired.

Tim pointed to the letters, which he had placed on a table in the foyer. He had noticed the Prussian postage stamp on the top envelope.

“I believe that I'm about to,” he declared. “That letter is from the man whom many consider the best surgeon in all Europe, perhaps the world. If he doesn't have any answers, then I doubt anyone does.”

“Then I'll pray that he has the answer,” Ginny said. Her voice was flat, and Tim understood that she was trying not to allow herself to hope, for fear of being disappointed.

“I'm going to read this immediately,” Tim said, picking up the letters. “Please try to stay hopeful. Keep in mind that even if no one else has the answer, it doesn't mean I can't try to do something myself. But I want to make sure I've looked at every option before I undertake something that could harm Jonathan more than it would help him.”

Ginny nodded. “I understand, Doctor, and I'm grateful. Really I am. It's just that the waiting is so hard.” She paused to compose herself, then continued. “I'll try to keep hoping,” she conceded, “but it isn't easy.”

Tim brought the letters upstairs to his office. He resisted the impulse to tear open the letter from von Bergsdorf and plunge into the contents. Instead, he sat, carefully slit the envelope with his letter opener, and removed the contents. He laid the sheets of paper on his blotter, and forced himself to read the message slowly. Fortunately, the Prussian doctor had eased Tim's task by writing in English.

Count Ulrich von Bergsdorf was regarded by most of his colleagues as the foremost surgeon in Europe. Tim had met him several years earlier at a medical symposium in Berlin, after hearing the count present his findings on the causes of apoplexy. Challenging the traditional view that apoplectic seizures resulted from overeating or fits of temper, von Bergsdorf had asserted that his study of victims showed a physical cause. Tim had been impressed by the Prussian's thorough research and sound logic, and had wanted to ask him some questions afterward. Put off by the count's brisk movements and aristocratic bearing, Tim had approached him hesitantly, only to learn that von Bergsdorf's outward appearance masked a pleasant, friendly personality. What began as a professional discussion had developed into friendship and even occasional collaboration on articles for some medical journals, until Tim joined Dr. Eustace's practice and no longer had time for research.

How long has it been since I've written to von Bergsdorf, other than the telegram? Tim asked himself. Eighteen months, he thought, perhaps longer. Another friend forgotten in the rush of business.

If von Bergsdorf was disappointed at Tim's failure to continue their correspondence, the count's letter gave no sign of it. The Prussian surgeon simply opened with a friendly greeting and moved directly into the details of Jonathan's illness. Von Bergsdorf stated that he was currently engaged in research on such cases, and had performed several experimental surgeries. He described each patient's condition before the operation in detail, meticulously reviewed the surgical procedures he had used in each case, and concluded every account with a report on the patient's postoperative situation. The information fascinated Tim, and he rose to get an anatomical chart, which he studied carefully as he read the descriptions of von Bergsdorf's operations. Sometimes Tim would nod in agreement with what he read; other times he would make notes. He reread the letter several times, rechecking the chart, writing further notes. Finally he turned to the count's final paragraph:

Your report on the outcome of this child's surgery would be useful to my research, and I hope you will send it to me. We may even be able to collaborate on the publication of our results. I know that having read my reports carefully, you will be completely aware of the difficulty you face. You will also understand that in the face of these odds, there is a chance of success. Be assured that I know of only two surgeons in Europe who have the capability to perform this surgery successfully. One is myself. The other, my friend, is you.

Tim felt buoyed by his colleague's praise. Von Bergsdorf was an honest man, and did not engage in mere flattery. The count's information had not been so much new as it had confirmed surmises that Tim had already made. The fact that the count had actually been proceeding along the lines that Tim had sketched out boosted his confidence—he had indeed been on the right track. Still, he felt much better knowing that von Bergsdorf had actually carried out some of the procedures and, by sharing the information, eliminated any need for Tim to resort to trial and error if he performed surgery on Jonathan.

The count had also advised Tim that the sooner the operation was performed, the greater the chance of success. Tim decided that he would explain the details to Ginny, and, if she wanted him to do the surgery after she understood the risks, he would do it at the first opportunity.