Page 143 of Rakes & Reticules
PADS, PURSES, AND PLUM PUDDING
BY USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR - AUBREY WYNNE
PROLOGUE
Christmas Eve 1802
East London
The icy rain misted around Sam, coating his thin jacket, seeping into his cracked shoes. He was so cold. His stomach hurt. He had nowhere to go. Approaching footsteps—at least two sets—echoed eerily behind him, so he turned a corner and hurried into a dark alley. With his back to the slimy wall, he watched three dark forms pass him.
Sam had no money for them to steal, but they’d take his coat and shoes. He slid to the ground, leaning against a cluster of barrels, and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just until he could figure out where to go. His trembling hands pulled the coat tightly around his neck, and he huddled with his head against his knees, feeling his warm breath go through the ragged wool of his breeches.
“Sam, would you light the plum pudding?” His mother’s soft voice matched the gentle touch on his shoulder. She was so beautiful in the deep-blue silk gown that matched her shining eyes.
He looked to his father, excitement rising in his chest. “Sir?”
“You’re a young man of ten—almost eleven now, Sampson.” There was an odd catch to his father’s voice that Sam had rarely heard. Smoothing his thick black hair, his father tugged on his brocade waistcoat before continuing, “It’s time you took on more responsibility and learned your place in the world. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Brooks?”
His mother blinked rapidly and nodded. “Yes, dear.”
To Sam’s surprise, she pulled him into a tight hug. Pressing her lips to his forehead, she whispered, “Remember, we love you very much.”
“Mama, don’t overset yourself.” He gave her a peck on the cheek as she poured brandy into a cup. He gave his father a side glance with his eyebrow raised, wondering why they were both so out of character tonight. “It must be the holiday making you both sentimental.”
A thought struck him. “It isn’t because I’ll be going off to Winton next fall? I’ll always be home for Christmastide.”
“Of course you shall!” His father slapped Sam on the back and handed his wife the sprig of holly to place on top of the dessert. “But this will be the last Christmas… well… as we have known them. You’re becoming a man, and someday, God willing, you’ll have your own house with your own family. Life can change in the blink of an eye or the stroke of a pen…” Mr. Brooks blinked and turned toward the window.
Mrs. Brooks smiled brightly. “No dour thoughts tonight, my love. Let us enjoy the festivities.”
His father retrieved the tinder box from the mantel and handed it to his son. Sampson poured the brandy over the dessert, a smile turning up his mouth as the liquor pooled around the bottom of the plate. It was a fine brandy—his father had taught him the difference between the smooth and cheap blends.
“Papa?” Given a nod of approval, Sam pulled a slender pine stick from the box and held it to the hearth fire. The brimstone at the end flared yellow and orange. He slowly turned and touched the burning end to the pool of brandy surrounding the dessert.
With a loudpoof!the plum pudding was surrounded in flame. He held his breath as the dessert flickered, the pungent scent of brandy mixed with the sweetmeats. The Brooks family laughed and clapped, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks kissed, then hugged their son, and wished one another a happy Christmas. As his mother cut each of them a slice, his father poured the wine.
It was the best day of the year for Sam. He had received his own writing set, with a bottle of ink and a journal to write in. “For your memories, ponderances, and the most valuable lessons you shall learn in life,” his father had said when he’d opened the gift.
After they finished eating, they gathered around the harpsichord. His mother’s slender fingers touched the wooden keys lovingly, then impatiently brushed at a tear rolling down her pink cheek. With a deep breath, her fingers hit the keys with gusto, playing “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks” as they all sang. Afterwards, his parents took their chairs before the fire, waiting for Sampson to read to them.
He settled on the plush rug, leaning against his mother’s legs, and opened the bible to a marked section in the Book of Matthew. The story of Nazareth and the babe born in a stable was always the crown on the evening. The fire crackled cheerily before them, faces of family now gone watching over them from the mantel.
Sampson cleared his throat as he always did before reading aloud, then paused. He looked up at his father, pride beating in his chest for the man who had begun life as a coal boy and now was a prosperous merchant. His mother was known as the Beautiful Mrs. Brooks. Sampson would continue to improve the family name by attending Winton, moving on to university, then studying at the Inns of Court. There, he would study law and become a solicitor. Make his father proud. Oh, how he wanted to be as respected and successful as his father.
“Papa, tell me again what my days will be like at Winton?” He would begin the Michaelmas term in October. It seemed more like years rather than months away.
“Well, first of all, you’ll become accustomed to a new routine. Your studies will be difficult, but you have a quick mind. I am confident you will—”
A swift kick to the backside woke Sampson from his dream.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” sneered a voice from the shadows of the alley. “Anything worth my time?”
Sam swiped at his face and squinted at the dark figures hovering over him. The chill damp stone had soaked through his bones. He tried to sit up, one palm landing in something slick,whathe didn’t want to think about. He wiped his hand against the wooden barrel he’d been leaning on before he fell asleep.
The man wore a filthy wool coat with the collar turned up against the cold. His hair was hung down from under his cap, but greasy strands had come loose and stuck to the side of his face. Puffs of white floated from his nose when he snorted, still peering down at Sam.
“Leave the lad alone, will ye?” pleaded a woman. She was dressed in a tight gown that exposed her generous bosom. A thin shawl covered her shoulders. “I’m givin’ ye what yer lookin’ fer. It’s Christmas Eve—let the boy be.” She whispered something in the man’s ear, and he grinned, displaying brownish-gray teeth.
