Clutching my basket, I hurried down the street. Pristine white snowflakes fell onto my red cloak. I blew into my hands, the cold nipping at my fingertips through my gloves. Everywhere I looked, Twickenham was bedecked for the holidays. Garlands of evergreen branches tied with red ribbons decorated the lampposts. Inside the church, someone was playing Silent Night on the piano.
Pushing past the church, I turned down a narrow alley, making my way to a small door that led into an equally cramped flat. I knocked on the door.
Inside, I heard children's chatter and clanging dishes. A few moments later, a slim woman with pale blonde hair came to the door. Her day-old braid had nearly come undone, loose strands of her hair hanging everywhere. I’d noticed Annabeth Buckingham and her children at church one morning. It only took a little asking around to discover that she’d recently been widowed. Apparently, while she did some work as a seamstress, she’d fallen on hard times. After learning her sad tale, I’d made a point of making her acquaintance.
“Oh, Miss Rossetti,” she said in surprise, pausing to smooth down her apron. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“I only wanted to bring you this,” I said, handing her the basket.
“What’s this?”
“Just some things from the bakery.”
“Miss Rossetti,” Annabeth’s youngest daughter, Pansy, squealed when she saw me. Rushing to the door, she wrapped her arms around my legs.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Rossetti. Pansy, please let Miss Rossetti go.”
“Yes, let me go so I can hug you better,” I said then knelt, giving the girl a proper squeeze. “And how are you today?” I asked the girl. She was a pretty thing, just like her mother, with pale yellow hair.
“Angry.”
“Why?”
“Henry and Jacob have been teasing me all morning.”
“Have they? And what are they saying?”
“That Father Christmas isn’t real, and that he won’t come here.”
The child’s words touched my heart. Her brothers, far older than the little girl, no doubt understood the family’s financial situation better than their younger sister. No doubt, they were trying to save her from disappointment.
“Last year Father Christmas brought me an orange and a new sweater,” she said then frowned. “They’re liars.”
“Pansy,” Annabeth said with a soft laugh. “That’s enough. I am sure Miss Rossetti doesn’t want to hear about your arguments. Would you like to come in, Miss Rossetti? Some tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you. I need to be off. But before I go, I need Pansy’s help. She must promise me something.”
“What is it?” the girl asked brightly.
“You must sample the gingerbread. The baker told me they have the best baked goods in Twickenham, but I’m not so sure. You try it and tell me what you thought when we next meet.”
“Gingerbread!” the girl exclaimed.
Upon hearing her sister’s proclamation, her brothers galloped toward the front of the house. Though they tried to hide discreetly, I saw the two boys peering at me.
“Yes, gingerbread. You must have a big piece to get a proper taste. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course, Miss Rossetti,” Pansy gushed.
I smiled at her mother.
“Here, take the basket to the kitchen,” Annabeth told her daughter.
“Thank you, Miss Rossetti,” the girl called as she disappeared into the back of the house. Two sets of heavy footsteps followed the little girl.
“Very kind of you, miss. You really didn’t have to,” Annabeth told me.
“I wanted to. I’ll be by again before the holidays. Is there anything in particular I can bring?”
She smiled meekly. “Just yourself. God bless you, miss.”
“And you and yours,” I said with a smile. Giving her a light wave, I turned and headed back toward the bustling village center.
As I walked, I weighed my coins once more. A plum pudding, some new coats for the children, and a cloak for Annabeth…I should have enough, though I wished I could do far more.
The wind whipped, stirring up the snowflakes, freezing the tip of my nose in an instant. I passed the church once more. This time, the organist was rehearsing The Twelve Days of Christmas. I found myself humming the song as I headed back across town. Soon, I was standing outside my favorite spot in the village, The Two Sisters Doll Shop and Toy Emporium.
I paused to gaze through the frost-covered window at the shop display. The window was alive with fanciful delights. Toy drums, dolls, wooden ducks, tops, and all manner of toys were on exhibition. The shop was full of people. The sisters had their hands full.
The bell above the door rang when I entered.
The owners, Lizzie and Laura—the twin sisters for whom the shop was named—were hard at work. Even at their advanced age, the sisters looked identical. They both had silver hair, which they kept pulled back in neat buns. The only difference between them was that Laura wore spectacles whereas Lizzie did not.
Lizzie was at the counter wrapping up a doll to place in a pretty box while her customer, a stout woman in a green cape trimmed with fur, waited almost patiently. Laura, who was the maker of the two, was at a workbench just behind the counter. She was focused on a doll with a mop of raven-colored tresses, trying to fasten a red bonnet covered in holy sprigs onto the reluctant toy.
“Good morning, Lizzie. Good morning, Laura,” I called as I brushed snowflakes off my cloak.
The shoppers, who were picking through tops, toy horses, chessboards, teddy bears, and row upon row of dolls, barely cast me a second glance. It seemed the pre-holiday fervor left them decidedly focused on their tasks.
“Scarlette, dear. Do you have a little time for us? Laura could use some help,” Lizzie said.
“Of course,” I said. I removed my cape and hung it on a peg. Slipping behind the counter, I went to see what Laura was working on.
“Good morning, Miss Laura,” I said, taking a seat at the bench across from her.
“Good morning, Scarlette,” she said, casting a quick glance at me over her spectacles. “This raven-haired lass is so fiddly. She’s stubborn from her stuffing to her porcelain face, and Lady Rochester’s maid will be here by noon to pick her up,” she said, sighing once more as she fussed with the little bonnet.
“It’s so busy in the shop,” I said.
Laura nodded. “I was awake almost all night working on orders. Will you attend to the buttons on those girls’ dresses?” she asked, pointing with her chin at the row of three pretty dolls whose clothes were in a state of disrepair. “I had to set them aside to get this done. And when you’re done with that, I have some other work for you, if you have the time.”
“Of course,” I replied.
Despite her chipper mood, I noticed that poor, sweet Laura was squinting hard, and her wrinkled face looked even more sallow than usual. This was a great time of year for the sisters to make money, or so they told me, but the toll it took on them—working night and day—was evident. At their age, it was too much. Pulling off my gloves, I got to work.
I’d discovered the doll-making sisters on my first visit into town. Enchanted by their creations, I’d purchased a doll. The second day, I returned just because they were so delightful to talk to. But I’d become a pseudo-apprentice quite by accident when, one morning while the shop was busy, I’d repaired the crank on a broken jack-in-the-box. As it turned out, my hands—born from a sculptor father and a painter mother—were quite good with all things small and mechanical. In fact, both sisters agreed that I could make a fine doll maker. I’d even fixed Lord Sutherland’s clockwork carousel, an expensive toy he’d bought for his children when he was abroad. It had taken me the entire afternoon to rework the cogs and gears then realign the pretty carousel animals, but I’d done it. In the process, I won the sisters’ eternal gratitude. With nothing better to do in Twickenham, and Uncle Horace busy with his writing, studies, or working on his little castle, I’d found life in town.