A Visit from Sir Nicholas Read online

  A

  VISIT FROM

  SIR NICHOLAS

  VICTORIA

  ALEXANDER

  Dear Readers:

  Charles Dickens had no idea what he was starting.

  When Dickens sat down to write A Christmas Carol in 1843, he did so because he thought a Christmas story would ease his financial woes. His last book had not done well and his wife was expecting their fifth child.

  Dickens worked with an unrelenting passion, and he completed the story in six weeks, but not without a certain amount of revision. For example, Tiny Tim was originally named Tiny Fred.

  A Christmas Carol was released a few days before Christmas and was an instant success. And why not?

  This is a tale of the true spirit of Christmas. A Christmas Carol has inspired readers for more than a century and a half and was my inspiration for this book.

  Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol are credited with reviving interest in nearly-forgotten traditions and the celebration of Christmas.

  It is a grand legacy for a writer. And a great gift for the rest of us.

  Merry Christmas.

  Contents

  DEAR READERS

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  Affectionately Yours, Lizzie.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “There’s no reason for you to leave, none at…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Holly and ivy, evergreens and all manner of…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I wondered if you were ever going to return…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Elizabeth, Lady Langley, slammed open the…

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Everything appears in order.” Nick scanned…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was a damnably good thing Nick had already…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I have never felt so blasted helpless in my…

  CHAPTER NINE

  “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.” Nick…

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I have no idea what I’m going to do now,”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nicholas helped Elizabeth out of the carriage,…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The first rays of morning light streamed in the…

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Have you spoken to your sister of late?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Elizabeth swept into the foyer of Nicholas’s…

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “In truth, I am torn.” Elizabeth sipped her…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nick leaned back in the chair behind his desk…

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “You look dreadful.” Jules eyed her sister over…

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Effington House was as festive as ever it was at…

  EPILOGUE

  “He had no further intercourse with…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR THE BOOKS OF VICTORIA ALEXANDER

  BY VICTORIA ALEXANDER

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to the memory of Rosemarie and Robert Griffin, who are always in my heart and taught me everything I know about the spirit, the hope and the love that is Christmas.

  Epigraph

  It was a strange figure—like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child’s proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic of the purest white and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm.

  Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing steadiness, was not its strangest quality. For as its belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without ahead, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever.

  “Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Scrooge.

  “I am!” The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

  “Who, and what are you?” Scrooge demanded.

  “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

  “Long past?” inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature.

  “No. Your past.”

  —A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens, 1843

  Chapter 1

  Christmas Past

  December 1843

  Affectionately Yours, Lizzie.

  Lady Elizabeth Effington stared at the words she’d just written and grimaced. No. Affectionately was entirely too personal, and Lizzie too informal. He’d never called her Lizzie and she doubted he’d start now. Indeed, with one significant exception, he’d never been anything other than completely proper with her. It was most annoying. She crossed out the line just as she had the previous three attempts.

  “That was truly wonderful.” Behind her, her younger sister, Juliana, sighed with heartfelt satisfaction.

  “I knew you would like it,” Lizzie said absently and stared at the sheet of white velum lying on the desk in front of her in the sitting room she shared with Jules.

  “It was so…so…” Jules thought for a moment. “Wonderful.”

  “Quite,” Lizzie murmured and wrote With Sincere Best Wishes, Lady Elizabeth Effington.

  “No, more than wonderful. I daresay it’s the best story about Christmas—no—the best story about anything I have ever read.”

  That wasn’t right either. With Sincere Best Wishes had an obligatory ring, as if one were writing to an elderly relative one didn’t particularly like but was required to be pleasant to nonetheless. Besides, while Lizzie might be too personal, Lady Elizabeth Effington was far and away too formal for her purposes. She slashed a pen stroke through the bothersome phrase.

  “In point of fact,” Jules continued in a tone that sounded far more like a literary critic than a mere girl of sixteen years, “I think it’s quite the best story Mr. Dickens has written. Of those I’ve read, of course, but I do think I’ve read most of his stories as he is possibly my favorite author. It’s not as amusing as Nicholas Nickleby but a far better ending to my mind than The Old Curiosity Shop, although I do so love stories about girls having adventures.” Jules paused. “Even if Little Nell’s were rather dreadful.”

  “Yes, well, dying at the end of one’s story does tend to make one’s adventures a bit less than cheery,” Lizzie said under her breath.

  With eternal friendship, Elizabeth.

  “I dislike books that don’t end well. Mother’s books always end well. This one does too, in a fashion, although it is something of a pity S
crooge did not discover the error of his ways until he was old. He would have had a rather wonderful life if he had married Belle. Don’t you think so?”

  “Um hmm.”

  Friendship was good. Not the least bit improper. And Elizabeth had the right tone. Perhaps…Lizzie sighed and crossed out her latest effort. Why on earth was this so blasted difficult? All she was trying to do was come up with an appropriate inscription for a book to give as a gift. Still, her words were as important as the book itself. Even more so.

  “I think my very favorite part though,” Jules said slowly, “was at the end when Tiny Tim sprouted wings and flew off with Fezziwig and the Ghost of Christmas Past. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. Of course. I…” Lizzie jerked her head up, swiveled in her chair, and stared at her sister. “What did you say?”

  “I suspected as much.” Jules narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You weren’t listening to a word I said, were you?”

  “I most certainly was. You said…” Lizzie searched her mind. She did so hate to admit that her sister was right, at least in part. “You said you liked A Christmas Carol better than any of Mr. Dickens’s other works.”

  Jules snorted in a most unladylike manner. “That was the very least of what I said.” She sat upright on the chaise and craned her neck to see around her sister. “Whatever are you doing, anyway?”

  Lizzie shifted to shield the paper on the desk and adopted a casual tone. “Nothing of importance really. Just trying to find the right words.”

  Jules raised a brow. “For what?”

  “For none of your concern, that’s what,” Lizzie said firmly.

  “Is it something for Charles?” Jules fluttered her lashes in an exaggerated manner.

  Lizzie laughed. “No, it’s not. And even if it was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” Indignation sounded in the younger girl’s voice. “I’d tell you what I was giving the gentleman who was about to ask for my hand in marriage.”

  “Nonsense,” Lizzie said quickly. “Charles is not about to ask for my hand.”

  Jules smirked. “Would you care to wager on that?”

  Lizzie stared at her sister, unease settling in the pit of her stomach. “Do you know something I should know?”

  “Perhaps.” Jules settled back on the chaise and smiled at her sister in that irritating way younger girls refine for the express purpose of torturing their older sisters. “I might know that Charles spoke to Father privately this morning. And I might further know, when Charles came out of Father’s library, he had a look of relief and excitement on his face.”

  Lizzie waved off her sister’s comments. “That could mean anything.”

  “Oh, come now, Lizzie. You can’t be the least bit surprised by this.” Jules studied her sister curiously. “For as long as I can remember, everyone in both our families has expected a match between you. I rather thought you expected to marry him as well.”

  “Charles is a good man and an excellent match, and any woman would be honored to be his wife. Indeed, it seems to me there are any number of young women wishing to do just that.” Lizzie smiled in a noncommittal manner and hoped her comments would satisfy her sister.

  “I know I would. Charles is wonderful.” Jules heaved a heartfelt sigh. “He’s so handsome, with the brightest blue eyes and the merriest smile and the most charming manner. Indeed, I fear I have a penchant for men with blond, wavy hair. One is hard-pressed to keep from running one’s fingers through it.”

  Lizzie bit back a grin. “You shall have to resist that in the future.”

  “In the future I shall have a merry, blond-haired, blue-eyed man of my own to wed.” Jules cast her sister a wicked grin. “Then I should be able to run my fingers through his hair all I wish.”

  “I daresay one shouldn’t choose a husband on the basis of his hair,” Lizzie said wryly.

  “I don’t see why a man’s appearance shouldn’t be considered as well as the rest of his attributes. I should much rather marry a handsome man than a homely one.” Jules drew her brows together. “Doesn’t Charles remind you of Fred?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Fred?”

  “Fred. Scrooge’s nephew. He was terribly happy and jolly and handsome as well, although he hadn’t much money.”

  “Charles has a great deal of money.”

  “So much the better. I think it’s far easier to be happy and merry if one has money than if one doesn’t.” Jules thought for a moment. “Although the Cratchits had no money and they seemed happy enough. Except for Tiny Tim, of course. But then he didn’t die after all, thanks to Scrooge. Or at least that’s what Mr. Dickens implies.” Her brow furrowed. “Do you think Mr. Dickens was trying to tell us that if you have enough money you can change your fate so that you won’t die young and horribly?”

  “Don’t be absurd. He didn’t mean anything of the sort.” Lizzie scoffed. “He was obviously saying that charity and generosity of spirit can make a huge difference in the lives of those who have little. Indeed, I think the moral to the story is that we should all do what we can to help the less fortunate and not just at Christmastime but the whole year through.”

  “Probably, although I do wish you hadn’t said that.” The younger girl wrinkled her nose. “I quite liked the story just as it was without concern as to morals or lessons.”

  “Morals and lessons are good for your character.”

  “My character has had quite enough, thank you. Between Mother and Grandmother and all the aunts, someone is always trying to tell me something that is good for my character. Or my mind, for that matter.”

  “Perhaps that’s an indication that your character and your mind need improvement,” Lizzie said primly.

  “I would scarcely comment about the need to improve one’s character or one’s mind if I were you.”

  “Juliana Effington, how can you say such a thing?” Lizzie gasped in mock dismay and clasped her hand to her throat. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with my character or my mind. I am intelligent and well-read, honest and forthright, and my moral standards are beyond reproach.”

  Jules eyed her sister wryly. “Then it must be exceedingly difficult to fool the entire world, as you, among all the varied and assorted Effington and Shelton cousins, are considered perhaps the merriest and the most frivolous.”

  “Indeed it is. I work very hard at it.” Lizzie nodded solemnly, then met her sister’s gaze, and both girls burst into laughter. Lizzie sobered and sighed. “In truth, Jules, I learned long ago that in this world a woman, as opposed to a man, is judged far more on her appearance than her intelligence, and men quite prefer a frivolous nature to a serious one. Someday, when I am old and long married, I fully intend to allow my mind free rein and explore all sorts of fascinating interests.”

  “I do hope I live long enough to see that.” Jules thought for a moment. “Still, I doubt that Charles would object. I daresay you could do almost anything and Charles wouldn’t mind in the least.”

  “He is a wonderful man,” Lizzie murmured.

  “Indeed he is. Aside from the dozens of blond-haired, blue-eyed children you shall have—”

  “Dozens?” Lizzie raised a brow.

  “Well, perhaps not dozens, but several.” Jules shrugged. “You and he are well suited. Everyone has always said so. Why, I believe you and Charles are fated to marry.”

  “Everyone has always said so.” Lizzie echoed her sister’s words.

  She too had always assumed she would marry Charles. Had, in fact, loved him in a fashion since childhood.

  Charles Langley was heir to a sizable fortune and respectable title. His family had long been friends with her own. Indeed, Charles was one of her older brother Jonathon’s closest friends. He would make an excellent husband and father, and no girl could ask for more. Why, he was quite simply wonderful.

  But his eyes weren’t dark and smoldering. And his demeanor wasn’t overly serious and somber. And when he stole a kiss in the shadows at a party, it
was quite nice, but it didn’t curl her toes and snatch her breath from her lungs and make something deep inside her melt with a heretofore unknown yearning.

  “Do you know who reminds me of Scrooge?” Jules said thoughtfully. “Nicholas Collingsworth.”

  “Nicholas?” Lizzie drew her brows together in a forbidding manner and ignored the way her heart skipped a beat at the mere mention of his name. “What a terrible thing to say! He’s not the least bit like Scrooge. He’s kind and generous and—”

  “He’s stiff and proper and far too serious and somber and not at all fun,” Jules said firmly. “Why, his only redeeming quality is that he is so devilishly handsome.”

  “Jules!”

  Jules continued without pause. “And I don’t care what you think, he reminds me very much of Scrooge in his younger days. I don’t know why Jonathon and Charles consider him such a good friend. They haven’t the least bit in common.”

  “They have been friends for years, and it is lucky for him that he has friends who are not so critical as you,” Lizzie snapped. “You must not forget, his life has not been as pleasant as ours.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, he’s an orphan and all that,” Jules muttered, sinking deeper into the chaise. “Obviously my character needs more work. Still, if the man would simply smile now and again…”

  “He does smile now and again,” Lizzie said more to herself than to her sister. And it was a smile made all the more wonderful for its rarity.

  Nicholas Collingsworth had entered their circle of acquaintances more than a decade or so ago after the death of his parents. The orphaned boy had come to live with his bachelor uncle, the Earl of Thornecroft, who, in turn, was a longtime friend of Lizzie’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Roxborough. Jonathon and Charles had immediately accepted the young man as one of their own, and the trio had been inseparable in their youth, attending the same schools and spending holidays variously at one of their respective families’ estates or another. Nicholas was somewhat more reserved than the other boys, and Lizzie had paid this friend of her brother’s, as she’d paid all her brother’s friends, scant attention. He, like Charles, was simply always present and, unlike Charles, of no real significance.