Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (24 page)

Epilogue

Seven Years Later

T
he carriage arrived at the Cratchit house shortly after five o'clock. Darkness had already fallen, but Tim and Jane were home in plenty of time for the party. As Tim helped Jane from the coach, the front doors swung open. Jonathan Whitson stepped aside and five-year-old Bob Cratchit raced down the walk. Tim gathered his son in his arms for a hug, then handed him to Jane when the boy stretched out his arms to his mother.

“How did everything go?” asked Jonathan.

“Very well, thanks,” Tim replied. “It was quite a ceremony.”

“Mama, Papa, come see!” Bob shouted. Jane stooped and released her son, who grasped her hand and tugged her inside, Tim following.

The foyer was draped in pine garlands, and Tim inhaled the pleasant scent, fragrant proof that the Christmas season had arrived. Stepping into the dining room, he saw that all of the tables were in place. His sister Belinda and her apprentice, Lizzie, were arranging plates of food. Bridget emerged from the servants' pantry with a tray of pastry, and from her armchair, Mrs. Cratchit indicated where it should be placed. Tim's mother, though still healthy, no longer had the energy to participate in setting out the food, so she satisfied herself with directing the proceedings from a comfortable chair. Tim knelt beside her and placed an arm around her shoulder.

“Kneeling before your mother?” Mrs. Cratchit feigned amazement. “I should think you'd done enough kneeling before the queen.”

Before Tim could answer, Lizzie rushed over and began telling him of her adventures in the seamstress's trade and at school. After a brief conversation with Belinda and Bridget, Jane excused herself to go upstairs and check on the Cratchits' year-old daughter, Martha, who had been napping.

“You might want to get some rest yourself, Tim,” she remarked before heading upstairs. Jonathan immediately caught Jane's hint that Dr. Cratchit might be tired and need a break from the children, so he directed their attention away from Tim.

“Bob, Lizzie, the turkey must be almost ready. Come and see!” he called. The three children ran off to the kitchen, nearly crashing into Ginny and William, who had just appeared with more food.

“I'm glad we have plenty of room,” Tim said with a laugh as he took Ginny's tray. She was eight months pregnant, but still insisted on working. “It won't be long before we've got another little one here. How are you feeling, Ginny?”

“Fine, Doctor,” she said.

“Better than me,” William remarked. “With everything going on around here at Christmas, and our child due to arrive soon after, it'll be years before I ever get another nap.” He squeezed his wife's hand.

“Then it's lucky you had a chance to nap this afternoon,” Ginny chided her husband. “You can complain later. Right now there's work to be done.”

William rolled his eyes and they all chuckled. Tim went upstairs to find Jane and Martha in their bedchamber, seated in the rocking chair.

“You should rest before the guests arrive,” Jane suggested.

“That's all right. I feel fine.” Tim felt a sense of exhilaration. Just two hours earlier, he had stood on a raised platform at one end of a large room in Buckingham Palace, a bit uneasy among the scarlet-coated generals, crisply uniformed admirals carrying large cockaded hats, and colonial officials, who, like him, wore civilian clothing. As he awaited the arrival of the queen and the knighthood ceremony that would make him Sir Timothy Cratchit, Tim reflected on the events that had brought him there.

It had begun in late summer, when the H.M.S.
Ares
, an old sailing frigate, had crept up the Thames River with barely enough hands to manage her. The third mate, the only officer well enough to exercise command, had hailed the wharf crew, telling them that the ship had to be put under quarantine, and asked for a doctor. The navy physician panicked upon finding most of the crew so sick that they could not leave their hammocks, and sent an officer to summon the renowned medical researcher Dr. Tim Cratchit.

Tim's search for the cause of the illness revealed a parasite in the drinking water. Learning that the ship's casks had last been filled in a remote Pacific island chain, and that the islands' inhabitants had been healthy, Tim concluded that the islanders had developed an immunity to the organism. He turned his attention to the array of botanical specimens the crew had gathered in the islands. As the condition of the sick sailors worsened and other crewmen fell ill, Tim hastened his work. Although the men who had not been infected when the ship arrived had been provided with local water, Tim deduced that the racking cough that afflicted the sick had spread the illness to them. If he was correct, the highly contagious and potentially fatal disease might spread across London like the plague.

Under the microscope, Tim isolated several unusual organic compounds in the plants. He applied each to the parasites until he found one that destroyed the organisms. He then prepared a vaccine and tested it on himself. Next, he administered it to the crew and everyone else who had been exposed to the parasite. Within a week, the outbreak of disease had ended. Tim's efforts earned him an unexpected reward; in November he had received a message from the palace, stating that he would be knighted “for medical services of inestimable value to the government and people of Great Britain.”

“Sir Tim,” Jane said, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you going to bask in your glory or get ready for the party?”

“I was thinking, not basking,” Tim answered.

“I know.” Jane smiled. “I'm glad you're not the type to get puffed up by all this. Let's get ready to welcome our guests.”

The evening was wonderful, as all of Tim's Christmas parties were wonderful. The platters of food seemed to cover acres. The candles on the tables, in the wall sconces, and on the two Christmas trees—one at each end of the dining room, at Lizzie's suggestion—twinkled brightly. Scrooge's nephew, Fred, was there, with his wife, his children and their spouses, and four grandchildren. Henry and Bridget chatted with Richard and Molly Beckham, whose three children, Violet, Tim, and Reggie, were exceptionally well behaved. Tim and Jane welcomed all of his siblings and their children. Mrs. Crompton and Archie arrived fashionably late, but still in time for Tim's mother-in-law to consume two heaping plates of food.

As the fiddler played a few notes to signal the start of dancing, Mrs. Crompton approached Tim. “A lady would never refuse to dance with a renowned doctor and Knight of the Bath, Sir Tim,” she hinted.

“Of course, ma'am,” Tim said gallantly. “May I have this dance?”

Jane leaned over and whispered into Tim's ear, “Watch your shins!”

When the evening's festivities drew to a close, Tim and Jane took their usual positions and called for the Christmas toast. Tim held his son Bob in his right arm and raised a goblet of punch in his left, while Jane cradled Martha and lifted her goblet in a similar manner.

“I want to change our Christmas tradition just a little,” Tim announced. “This year, I think Bob should give the toast.” He turned toward his son.

“Merry Christmas!” the boy said in a surprisingly strong voice. “And God bless us, every one!”

Tim exchanged a loving look with Jane before scanning the cheerful faces of his guests. Then he peered into the dark corners at the far end of the room through eyes moist with tears of happiness. He did not see his father, or Mr. Scrooge. But he knew they were watching.

Acknowledgments

Many people deserve my thanks for their assistance with the writing and publication of this novel. My wife, Lori, read the many versions of the manuscript and made numerous suggestions that improved the story. My agent, Jill Grosjean, and my editor at Simon & Schuster, Elana Cohen, also provided valuable advice and assistance. While researching the era in which the novel takes place, I found essential information in many sources, but none was more useful than Daniel Pool's
What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew
. Of course, this book could not have been written without the brilliance of Charles Dickens, who created the wonderful characters of
A Christmas Carol
and inspired me to wonder what might have happened to them after the conclusion of the original novella.

About the Author

Jim Piecuch worked as a firefighter and freelance journalist in New Hampshire before pursuing graduate study at the College of William & Mary in Virginia. He is a history professor at a Georgia university and is the author of several books on the American Revolution. He lives in South Carolina.

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ISBN 978-1-4767-6617-1