If she even remembered him.
Blast it. He resisted the urge to tap his temple with the hope of knocking out the other ifs.
Of course, she would remember him. He had made a promise to himself to speak with her, and he would keep that vow. Before Christmas Eve.
Nothing like a deadline to keep a person honest.
Peter shivered, and Thomas reached to pull up the collar on the boy’s jacket. The December air was crisp, especially this morning. But Thomas thought it was anticipation that caused Peter’s reaction.
“Do you have traditions for Christmas?” Thomas asked.
The boy frowned as he looked up at him, the weak sunlight making his pale skin look all the paler. Thomas had done his best to feed him well with the hope of putting some weight back on his thin frame. But he missed his family so deeply that it had been a challenge to convince him to eat.
“Traditions?” Peter asked. While the boy’s English was good, there were still words he didn’t know.
“Things you do at Christmas every year to help celebrate it.”
Thomas’s memory was filled with them. Ice skating on the small pond near their home. Snowball fights with his older brother. Gingerbread and wassail. Decorating the Christmas tree. Roasted goose dinner and mince pies. Burning the Yule log. Christmas pudding set alight. Those and so many more.
“Mama makes bratwurst with red cabbage and potato dumplings.” Peter licked his lips as if he could almost taste it. Then he shrugged. “Course, that was before we had to move.”
From what he’d told Thomas, his family had left their home when the threat of France and Germany going to war became a reality. Unfortunately, England had not been kind to them and any luck they’d had seemed to have run out.
Thomas intended to change that. But he’d been careful not to make too many promises to Peter. London was a big city, and there was a good chance his family had been able to find employment and restart their lives.
Peter had explained that his father was a Zukerbäcker, or a sugar-baker, at a sugar refinery near the docks. Raw sugar was shipped to London from various places around the world where copper pans were heated using coal to boil it. The refined product was then exported.
The work, using a special technique that the Germans had mastered and closely guarded the secrets of, was dangerous. The workers were supplied with unlimited beer to help battle the hot temperatures in which they worked. Many succumbed at an early age because of the melted sugar that coated their lungs.
The boy wasn’t certain of the exact nature of his father’s injuries, only that a piece of equipment had fallen on him, so it was difficult to know if he’d been able to recover and find work.
What puzzled Thomas was what had happened to separate Peter from his family once they entered the workhouse. He knew families were divided with only the young able to stay with their mothers. The men slept in one area, the women in another, and the same for the boys and girls.
There was a chance his two younger sisters had been able to remain with their mother. But why had Peter been transported to America when he had a family? It might’ve made sense for orphans or perhaps even those families who couldn’t support their children and so agreed to send them away. The way Peter spoke of his family suggested they were very close, and he insisted his parents never would’ve agreed to the plan.
Thomas certainly hoped taking boys from their families wasn’t a common practice. Thinking of the others who’d been sent away made Thomas feel terrible about the city where he’d been born and raised.
Thomas intended to settle Peter at his own parents’ residence and then visit the workhouse to see if he could find Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt—if they were still there.
He shook his head, detesting the blasted word. Somehow, he would find answers even if it meant spending his holiday to do so.
Frances studied each of the lists she’d written and revised over the past weeks to aid with the planning of the Christmas ball. Most items had been completed successfully with the help of her mother and the ladies of The Mayfair Literary League.
A few details remained, most of which Frances intended to see to herself.
“I do believe you have everything well in hand,” her mother said with a smile of approval as she reviewed one of the lists where they sat together at a table in the drawing room. “Ticket sales have been going well, according to Mr. Seaton.”
Mr. Seaton was her father’s man of business and had been tracking the tickets with care.
A mix of pride and relief filled Frances. “I’m so pleased to hear that. I’ll be meeting with him the day after tomorrow to confirm who has responded and determine if there’s anyone else we should invite.”
The ball was to be held in two weeks’ time and would arrive before she knew it.
“Suggesting that only a limited number of invitations were available helped to encourage people to respond quickly,” her mother said. “Everyone likes to think they’re attending an exclusive event.”
That had been Phoebe’s idea, and it had worked very well. “I still want to sell as many tickets as possible in addition to encouraging donations,” Frances said. “The cause is an important one.”
“We could announce the larger donations to see if that helps.” Her mother lifted a brow. “I know some of the nobility think it crass to speak of money, but sharing what others have contributed might make them aware of how tight-fisted they’re being.”
