perfectly honest, if you’d told the truth from the first, I wouldn’t have got to know you. That’s what I kept thinking today. God works in mysterious ways. You
were
wrong, but…if you hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you.” He added steadily, “Or you with me.”
“I do love you.”
“I know.”
At my expression, he gave that wry look. “Oh, I knew long before you did. You fell almost at once.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, Professor.”
He said in that gentle way, “I’ve had a lot of experience with love. You haven’t. But I’m going to see that that changes. If you’ll let me.”
He’d
had a lot of experience with love? Why, I’d been with ten ti—and then I understood what he was actually saying. What he was offering. The sound that came out of me was supposed to be a laugh, but it was frighteningly close to the other thing. I got up and went to pour a brandy.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked him over my shoulder.
“Yes. But it can wait.”
That was better. I could turn that into a joke. I glanced around and he was right behind me, and the
expression on his face dried the laughter in my throat.
“I love you so much,” he said. “I’ve waited my entire life for you.”
We were holding each other again, and I whispered, “I’ll make it up to you, Sedge. I swear it. I’ll
never let you down again.”
He kissed me. “I want to give you your Christmas present. It’s at the hotel.”
I tried for lightness because any more emotion and I was going to embarrass myself completely. “You
don’t think I could unwrap it here?”
He smiled faintly but shook his head.
“Did you really get me a present?”
He nodded.
I felt indescribably touched at the idea of Sedgwick choosing a gift especially for me. I hoped it
wasn’t a tie. Or another jar of chocolate soufflé. “Before or after we fell out?”
“After.”
“After?” That seemed significant—unlikely too. I did very much want to see this present.
It was bitterly cold and still raining as we went down to his rental car.
76
The Dickens with Love
The streets were largely empty of traffic as we drove down Sunset. Christmas lights still shone
brightly despite the bedraggled and dripping decorations.
Watching the wet splatter against the windshield, I said, “Does that look like snow to you?”
Sedgwick was amused. “Haven’t you ever seen snow?”
“Of course I’ve seen snow.”
“It’s not snow. It’s slushy, I’ll give you that.”
It was warm and sort of steamy in the car as our wet clothes dried in the blast from the heater.
Christmas music played softly on the radio as we talked. Not about anything important. Now and then he reached over and gave my hand a squeeze.
We were heading up Stone Canyon when I asked, “How
did
your family come into possession of
The
Christmas Cake
?”
“Ah. Well, it was a gift, you see.”
“A
gift
? That would have been an awfully nice gift even in Dickens’ day.”
“Yes, it would have. Do you know who Angela Burdett-Coutts was?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know about Urania Cottage?”
“The asylum for fallen women? Yes. I know that Dickens and Burdett-Coutts were involved in the
endeavor together.”
“Yes. Originally Dickens wanted no part of it and even tried to convince Burdett-Coutts to withdraw
from the project. But she persisted and eventually he was won over. He became actively involved in the asylum and considered it one of his greatest achievements—as did Burdett-Coutts.”
I wondered where this was headed. “So he wrote her
The Christmas Cake
as a gift? A token of
affection? An apology?”
“All of those, perhaps. As you know from what you read,
The Christmas Cake
is a story about
redemption and the power of love.”
“And a fallen woman. Dorinda Love,” I said. That was a connection I hadn’t thought much about.
“Yes. Anyway, Burdett-Coutts was very proud of her success with Urania Cottage. There was one
young woman in particular she was very proud of, a young woman who dragged herself from the most base
circumstances but worked to reshape her life into something worthwhile. That young woman became a sort of protégé and in time Burdett-Coutts helped her find work as a governess.”
I guessed, “She gave her the book as a gift.”
“Yes.” Sedgwick threw me a quick glance. “Can you guess the rest of it?”
“Where did the young woman work as a governess?”
77
Josh Lanyon
“She worked for a widowed canon by the name of Crisparkle. In time she married him. They had
three children. The book went to their daughter, and then to her daughter, and then finally to my great-aunt who bequeathed it to me.”
“Where did Stephanopoulos come into it? Why do you hate him so much?”
“I don’t hate him, but I would never knowingly allow him to take possession of that book. Years ago
when my great-aunt was financially strapped, she—very discreetly—had the book appraised. Even so,
word of it got out to a handful of collectors. Stephanopoulos was one of them. My aunt had already decided not to sell when he tried to force her hand by threatening to publicly reveal what you call the provenance of the book. That provenance is not a legend as the handful of people who know about the book believe. That provenance is my family history.”
“But how would he be able to do that? Reveal your family history.”
“He couldn’t without the actual book as proof. But the fact that he attempted to use coercion to force my aunt to sell is a matter I can’t forget or forgive—as I told him at the time I inherited the book.”
We reached the hotel at last, handed the keys over to the valet and started across the wet and sparkling grass.
The clock-tower face seemed to be smiling benignly. The lake appeared to be empty of swans. We
were crossing the bridge when Sedgwick said suddenly, “Good God.” He stopped stock-still.
“What?”
“Look.” He pointed upwards.
I tipped my head back and tiny white feathers seemed to be swirling down over our heads.
“It’s snowing,” I said in disbelief.
He was laughing. “It is.”
“It’s
snowing
in L.A.”
“Yes.”
We were laughing as we ran the rest of the way to his hotel room. Sedgwick slammed the door shut
and I went across to pull back the drapes and stare at the white flakes tumbling down, landing lightly on the patio, the wall, the flower urns.
“I don’t believe it,” I murmured.
“But it’s there all the same. Whether you believe in it or not.”
I turned to face him. He was smiling, but it was an odd sort of smile. He nodded to the table between
us.
There was a flat parcel: gold and white paper, tolerantly amused angels blowing long horns and
playing harps. The ribbon was red and there was a wilted sprig of mistletoe.
I sat on the sofa and picked up the package, tucking the mistletoe behind my ear. “That will come in
useful later.”
78
The Dickens with Love
Sedgwick smiled, but he seemed grave—perhaps even anxious.
Gazing down at the parcel, I was inexplicably touched. “Did you really go Christmas shopping for
me?”
He smiled, but his eyes were serious.
“I feel bad I didn’t get you anything.”
He said solemnly, “If you’ll accept this, that will be my gift.”
That sounded portentous. Was this a Bible perhaps? I considered it as my fingers absently stroked the
ribbon. Did I have a problem with that? Truthfully, I didn’t know a lot about God or Christianity. Oh, I knew intellectual things, but I was pretty sure my understanding of religion was not the same as a man like Sedgwick’s. What was he offering Faith? Hope? Love?
All of them?
I nerved myself and opened the parcel. Disbelieving, I stared at the red Morocco leather and the gold
embossed words.
It took me a bit to get the words out. “You’re giving me
The Christmas Cake
?”
“If you’ll have it.”
I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say. It had to have occurred to him that if I took the book but didn’t accept
him
, he was giving up his own dream. Or if I chose not to sell the book…
I said, and my voice was almost steady, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Oh yes.”
“What if I—?” I must have looked as stunned as I felt. He came and sat next to me, put his arm
around me.
“There are no conditions. It’s yours to do whatever you like with. I want you to have it. I wanted you to have something you didn’t believe you could ever have.” His smile seemed to squeeze my heart. “Two
things.”
I had to put my hands up to my eyes. “I can’t…I don’t…”
“Oh yes you can. And you do.”
I opened my eyes and he was still smiling. “Merry Christmas.” His mouth covered mine, sweet and
hungry.
Sometime later, I turned my head on the pillow. “Have you read
The Christmas Cake
? The whole
thing, I mean?”
“Of course.”
“Does it have a happy ending?”
“Yes.” He pulled me still closer, smiling and sleepy. “It’s a Christmas story.”
79
Author’s Note
Alas, I’m sorry to say there is no Dickens story called
The Christmas Cake
. I strung bits of Victorian stories together, cadging in particular from “When the Yule-Log Burns” by Leona Dalrymple, in order to come up with the excerpts for
The Dickens With Love
. Between 1843 and 1848 Charles Dickens wrote five Christmas books. So far as we know there was no Christmas novel in 1847. We don’t know why. Dickens
did go on to write other Christmas stories. Though the stories and the lesser-known Christmas books were popular in their time, none have endured in the minds and hearts of readers like
A Christmas Carol
. In fact,
A Christmas Carol
is credited with influencing how we celebrate Christmas to this very day.
About the Author
A distinct voice in GLBT fiction, multi-award winning author Josh Lanyon has written numerous
novels, novellas and short stories. He is the author of the critically praised Adrien English mystery series as well as the new Holmes and Moriarity series. Josh is a two-time Lambda Literary Award finalist. To learn more about Josh, please vis
it www.joshlanyon.com
or join his mailing list at
groups.yahoo.com/group/JoshLanyon.
Look for these titles by Josh Lanyon
Now Available:
Crimes & Cocktails
Mexican Heat
(Writing with Laura Baumbach)
Holmes & Moriarity
Somebody Killed His Editor
He followed all the rules…until one man showed him a dozen ways to break them.
An Improper Holiday
© 2009 K.A. Mitchell
As second son to an earl, Ian Stanton has always done the proper thing. Obeyed his elders, studied
diligently, and dutifully accepted the commission his father purchased for him in the Fifty-Second Infantry Division. The one glaring, shameful, marvelous exception: Nicholas Chatham, heir to the Marquess of
Carleigh.
Before Ian took his position in His Majesty’s army, he and Nicky consummated two years of physical
and emotional discovery. Their inexperience created painful consequences that led Ian to the conviction that their unnatural desires were never meant to be indulged.
Five years later, wounded in body and plagued by memories of what happened between them, Ian is
sent to carry out his older brother’s plans for a political alliance with Nicky’s father. Their sister Charlotte is the bargaining piece.
Nicky never believed that what he and Ian felt for each other was wrong and he has a plan to make
things right. Getting Ian to Carleigh is but the first step. Now Nicky has only twelve nights to convince Ian that happiness is not the price of honor and duty, but its reward.
Warning: Just thinking about reading this book in 1814 could get you hanged, so the men in this book
who enjoy m/m interaction of an intimately penetrative nature are in a hell of a lot of trouble.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
An Improper Holiday:
When at last the door opened, Ian spun ’round to be relieved of his coat, sufficiently irritated by
Simmons’ delayed arrival to forgo his usual greeting.
Perhaps the fellow had been overindulging in whatever libations were being offered to celebrate the
day in the servants’ hall because the valet was clumsy rather than deft, struggling just to ease the coat from Ian’s shoulders.
“And I shall be retiring, Simmons.”
Instead of the expected “Very good, sir,” the man left his arms pinned behind his back and brushed
his fingers beneath Ian’s cravat. The unanticipated contact awakened Ian’s skin, his flesh alight with delightful ripples of sensation.
“What the devil?”
He would have turned to face the man, but Simmons stepped closer, hands moving to remove the
starched tie while pressing his hips intimately against Ian’s arse.
The shock and terror in his gut, even the pain of his confined shoulders, could not dampen the rush of arousal evoked by the touch, by the strength of another man’s embrace.
“Simmons. I must ask that you remember yourself.” Ian twisted free, retreating to place a wall at his
vulnerable back, but his all-too-vulnerable front was exposed to—Nicky.
The identity of his assailant did little to mitigate Ian’s dismay.
“Are you mad?” Ian struggled with his coat, anger lending him sufficient strength to tear one of the
sleeves from the body.