—Marjorie Holmes
Victorian Christmas
Usually, I look forward to Christmas, but not this year. This year I'm feeling restless and unfulfilled and to tell the truth, I'm just going through the motions.
I'm with Beth Browning, a girl I really could love, but we're from different worlds and it's just not going to work out.
But I can't break up with her just before Christmas, so I'm out in the middle of a snowstorm risking life and limb driving on country roads so I can chauffeur her back to her parents' house for a Christmas 'at home'—whatever the hell that is.
I know—I'm not wealthy like her parents and friends and am left scrounging for breadcrumbs she might toss my way.
I wish it were otherwise, but it is what it is and I have to accept it's coming to an end.
So here I am, slipping and sliding down county roads, almost getting stuck in snow drifts but somehow I'm able to stay on the road by following some farmer’s sleigh tracks.
I pull the car up to the parking lot and beep the horn, but she pops her head out the door and cheerily waves me in.
My spirits sink, but there’s not much I can do—I have to go in. Still, I’m worried about the long drive back.
I shut off the car and navigate the slippery path to the huge wooden porch, stomping snow off my Rockport shoes, mentally calculating the cost of replacing them.
I stomp a little harder for emphasis, and then push through the door and out of the swirling maelstrom outside.
Inside, is a sea of tranquility.
Ruddy flames from the fireplace illumine the room, and although I feel transported back in time, I’m miffed she hasn’t doused the fire or gotten ready.
“You’re here!” she smiles, hair backlit by the flames. She really is beautiful and the fire dancing in her eyes takes my breath away.
Maybe there’s a reason I’m here with her.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asks shyly, disarming my protest.
“Sure—anything alcoholic?”
“You’re driving,” she frowns. “How about a rum hot chocolate?”
“Hmm, that sounds good.”
She pours the drink and ladles on a spoon of real whipped cream. “It’s rum flavouring, I’m afraid.”
“Hey, they didn’t have that back in Dickens' day.”
She tweaks my nose playfully, “No, they didn’t, Smarty, but some of our patrons don’t drink and we stock it for them.”
“Yeah, everybody had a drop or two back in Victorian times,” I grouse, “they even gave it to kids as medicine.”
She comes up behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders, and begins kneading away knots.
“Other things can relax you,” she whispers.
I grab her wrist and pull her onto my lap, but she resists. “Please Spence! This is my workplace after all.”
“Oh really? I mistook it for a candle-lit retreat from the storm—and quite romantic, I must admit.”
The fire’s back in her eyes, but she wisely steps back.
“Just finish your hot chocolate,” she smiles, “and then help me close up—it’s nearly five.”
“Such a slave-driver,” I grumble.
“Poor boy, but you’re wrong when you called me a slave driver. I wouldn’t have been a slave owner back in Dickens' time—maybe, an abolitionist.”
She frowns thinking about it, “Yes, definitely an abolitionist.”
I look at her in her long dress thinking more of Emily Pankhurst, but wisely suppress the thought.
“I’m going to take these parcels out to the car,” she calls out, “and then, we’ll put out the candles and the fire.”
“Sounds good,” I sigh, warming my feet at the hearth.
Baby, it’s cold outside. I really don’t want to face that drive…
And I really don’t want to face the task of breaking up with her after all the fake Christmas spirit disappears, but, some things a man’s got to do.
Thank You!
Congratulations @johnjgeddes! You have completed the following achievement on the Hive blockchain And have been rewarded with New badge(s)
You can view your badges on your board and compare yourself to others in the Ranking
If you no longer want to receive notifications, reply to this comment with the word
STOPCheck out our last posts: