Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol (4 page)

Tim laughed. “That helps to explain why she was so gracious to me tonight. But what about your health, Miss Crompton? If it's not impolite to say so, you didn't look well yesterday, and I can't say I notice any improvement in your condition tonight. I wanted to ask you yesterday, but your mother spirited you away too quickly.”

Jane lowered her eyes. “I'm sure it's just that I've been working too much, Tim. You needn't worry about it. A little rest and I'll be fine.”

“My professional judgment tells me that there's more to it, Miss Crompton. I want to help, and hope I can, but I won't be able to if you don't confide in me.” As he spoke, Tim realized that his worries arose as much from personal concern for the young lady as from professional interest. The conviction of his words reflected this, although he feared that he might have implied more than he had intended.

Jane gazed into Tim's blue eyes and saw only sympathy.

“Mother has become much more demanding over the past few years,” she said softly. “She always had her own maidservant, and a cook and a housekeeper, and even though she complained about everything they did, she at least tolerated them. But then she began to get more and more critical. She started following them around, nitpicking at everything they did or didn't do. Some of them got angry and quit, and others were dismissed, and their replacements rarely last more than a month or two. Every time Mother dismisses them, I have to do the work of one or the other, and sometimes all three, until she hires new people.”

“That's quite a burden on you,” Tim observed.

Jane nodded. “It is, but it's my responsibility to help my mother. What I find most frustrating is that I no longer have any time to do the things that I want.”

“And what's that, if I may ask?”

“Mother thinks it should be marriage. Pursuing a proper husband, and nothing more. She says that the right marriage will allow me to enjoy a life of leisure like she does, but I think that too much leisure is the cause of her bad temper. If she had something worthwhile to occupy her, she wouldn't have time to wander about finding fault with others.”

“You've told me what your mother wants for you, but you haven't said what you want,” Tim pressed gently.

“I'm not quite sure,” Jane replied after a moment's thought. “There aren't many options for a woman of my station. In that sense Mother is right—a good marriage is the only goal I'm expected to aspire to. And I wouldn't mind being married and having a family. But I also want to do something useful beyond being a wife and mother. Is that wrong?”

“I don't think so,” Tim said. “One of my sisters works as a baker with her husband, and another is an accomplished seamstress.”

Jane found this information a bit surprising; she had not expected that the sisters of a successful doctor would work. Yet it seemed to conform to her opinion of Tim's character. He had none of the natural sense of privilege, even arrogance, of many of the wealthy people she knew. Encouraged by Tim's statement, Jane admitted that she occasionally helped her father with his work and enjoyed it.

“I'd actually like to learn more about Father's business,” she said, “perhaps even oversee it someday, since he has no male heir. Of course, I'd have to hire a manager, but at least I'd understand what was going on and have some say in affairs. Father seems willing to teach me, but Mother says it will ruin my marriage prospects.” Jane paused. “I'm sorry. I really shouldn't trouble you with this.”

“It isn't any trouble,” Tim said. He rose, stepped toward her, and almost placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Then, recognizing the impropriety of such a gesture, he settled for standing beside her chair. “I think that you would feel better with some rest, and it would give you some time to think, too. I can tell your mother that in my professional opinion, you need several days—”

“That won't work,” Jane blurted. “Mother will agree with you, probably even say that she was thinking the same thing, and then ignore your advice as soon as you've left.”

“Could you at least get out of the house once in a while? That would keep you out of your mother's clutches, and the change of scene might be good for you. Are there friends you could visit?”

“Mother does encourage me to go out occasionally with the daughters of her friends, girls my own age or younger, but I don't enjoy it. They're all so shallow, wanting only to flaunt their fine clothes and spend their fathers' money so everybody will know how rich they are.”

“Then may I make another suggestion, Miss Crompton?” Tim inquired.

“Certainly, and please, call me Jane.”

“You need some time out of this house, Jane. Let me repay your invitation to the party tonight by asking you to attend my own party next week. Not just as a guest, but as my hostess. I usually force my mother or one of my sisters to handle that chore, but I would be honored if you would do it for me this year. There isn't the least bit of work involved, I assure you, other than being polite to the guests.”

Jane was flattered by the offer. She promptly accepted, then paused. “I don't think Mother would allow it, unless she's there to keep an eye on me.”

“I'll talk to your father before I leave,” said Tim. “I think he'll agree, and I'll invite your parents, too. The formal invitation will be delivered here tomorrow or Monday by post.”

“Thank you so much, Tim,” Jane said. “You don't know how much this means to me.”

“It means a good deal to me, too,” he declared, although he had not thought about inviting Jane to his party until an instant before the words tumbled from his lips.

Worried that he had again been too fervent in his expression, as though his heart were beginning to push him in a direction where his mind was not yet ready to go, Tim excused himself. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, earning a reproachful grimace from the butler. Ignoring the man, he entered the drawing room just in time to see Mr. and Mrs. Crompton and a half dozen other couples beginning a waltz. Mrs. Crompton, who had all the grace of a rhinoceros in a tar pit, was moving her feet wildly, as if the floor were on fire. One such convulsion struck her husband squarely on the shin. He yelped in pain, inciting a scattering of giggles among the spectators. Mrs. Crompton promptly stormed over to the musicians and began to berate them, accusing them of misplaying the piece as an excuse for her inability to dance. Archie Crompton threw his head back, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and headed toward the liquor. Tim caught his eye and beckoned him over.

“Of course, Doctor,” Crompton consented with another wink after Tim had asked if Jane could serve as hostess for his party. “I'll send her over early in my coach. My coachman is the only servant we have left, and that's only because he sleeps in the carriage house and takes care of the grounds, and therefore can keep his distance from my wife. He's a shrewd fellow, smart enough never to come into the house.”

“Archibald?” Mrs. Crompton shrieked as the chastened musicians struck up a new tune. Crompton seized a wine glass from the tray of a passing server, downed the contents in a single swallow, and with a shake of his head turned to rejoin his wife. Tim thought he displayed all the enthusiasm of a convict marching toward the gallows. Tim followed to thank him for his hospitality and bid him good night.

Returning downstairs, Tim told Jane that her father had consented to her acting as hostess, news she greeted with a smile. He thanked her for the invitation to her family's party, said good night, and bowed in farewell.

Jane climbed the stairs in a sprightlier manner than usual, ignored the dour butler lurking on the top landing, and entered her room. She closed the door, sat in her chair, and in her mind replayed her conversation with Tim. She was happy that he had invited her to his party—even asked her to be his hostess. It would give her a chance to see him again, which, she admitted, she had been hoping for. Since the first time she had seen him, at one of her mother's medical appointments with him, Jane had sensed an underlying compassion in the serious young Dr. Cratchit. She saw it in his soft blue eyes when he inquired about her health at his office, and again just a little while ago.

The doctor, of course, was not the kind of man her mother would consider suitable for Jane. He was focused on his work, and on helping people, rather than on gaining fame or wealth. Her mother's idea of the perfect husband for Jane was someone like the rakish young fellow who a few months ago had become engaged to Jane's friend Anne. A stock trader in the City, the dark-haired, mustachioed Ambrose Pearson was never without his top hat and silver-headed walking stick, which he twirled in a jaunty manner. Pearson was always bragging about how he was going to become head of his firm someday and make a fortune along the way. He had done well so far, and Jane, while disliking his arrogant manner, had been forced to admit that he had a head for business. When Anne became engaged to Pearson, Mrs. Crompton constantly held him up as an example of the kind of man Jane should marry, but probably never would.

Later Anne confided to Jane and her other friends that Pearson told her the secret of his success. “He said he does not go in for drudgery, and does not have the patience for all the bothersome work tracking profits and losses and assets and the like,” Anne had said. “He has impressed his superiors by always being the last to leave the office at night, but that is because he waits till the drudges are gone and then goes through their papers to get their information and uses it himself.” Anne seemed proud of her fiancé's methods, although Jane considered them despicable. Eventually, tired of her mother's nagging that she should find a man like Pearson, Jane told Mrs. Crompton the story Anne had related. Her mother, as she should have expected, was not put off; instead, she praised Pearson's cleverness.

Tim, fortunately, was nothing like Pearson. And was the doctor as lonely as he seemed to be? In that, he seemed to her a kindred spirit. Jane wanted to know more about him, to discover what was behind his deeply compassionate nature and single-minded dedication to his work. She wondered if he was thinking about her now. She smiled at the possibility.

Tim had taken a hansom to the party, rather than having Henry drive him and wait outside in the cold. Emerging from the Crompton mansion, he saw no cabs on the street, even though it was just ten. Energized by his conversation with Jane and the knowledge that she would be hostess for his dinner party, Tim decided to walk toward town in hopes of finding a cab once he got closer to the city center. He strode swiftly, thoughts totally consumed with his own upcoming Christmas celebration. He imagined Jane at his side greeting the guests, sharing dinner with him, sitting close beside him in his coach on the ride home afterward. During his time in school and his early years of practice among London's poor, he had always envisioned himself getting married one day and raising a family. However, that picture of his future had dimmed over the last half decade, as the demands of his career overcame one aspect after another of his personal life. Now the idea of marriage began to glimmer again in his mind.

As he continued walking, fatigue and the cold took their toll on his spirits. A gust of wind blasted down the street, and he tightened his scarf around his neck and thrust his thinly gloved hands deeper into his pockets. Still no hansom in sight. Moisture in the air froze into tiny crystals, creating glowing halos around the gas lamps. He paused at one corner for a few minutes to rest his legs. Too much time sitting in the office, he thought. The days when he walked tirelessly for hours among the slums of London seemed long, long ago.

The image of Ginny and Jonathan Whitson huddled in a doorway in the frosty night sprang unbidden into Tim's mind, as if carried to him by the biting wind. Early tomorrow morning the poor girl would begin her trek across town to his office for their noon appointment. What love it must require for her to carry her crippled son on such a journey. What courage it must take just to survive every day on the streets, going out in search of work, having one door after another slammed in her face, in the hope of finding someone willing to give her a few copper coins for hours of toil. His mother had never allowed his sisters to do that, though he had known many girls in Camden Town who had done the same thing to help their families put a morsel of food on the table. Tim reproached himself for having left Ginny and Jonathan on the street, without making sure that they had somewhere safe and warm to stay.

Absorbed in such thoughts, Tim stopped paying attention to his route, and perhaps the power of his childhood memory unconsciously led him back along an old, familiar path. He realized that he was at the fringes of the city's financial district, just a few blocks from old Scrooge's former office. He and one or another of his siblings had often come this way in the evening to wait for their father and accompany him home from work. On an impulse, Tim decided to walk by the office and see who occupied it now.