Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Jim Piecuch Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œOf 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.”
    â€œArchibald?” 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