Fic: Baby's First Christmas
Title: Baby's First Christmas (Eve)
Author: Pearlsie
Rating: G (unless illness and suggested mild baby abuse bothers you)
Wordcount: 994
Disclaimer: Not mine. Disney's. Any unrecognized characters are mine, however, and I take full blame.
Series: Tales of Christmas Past - James Norrington
It was a gloomy day. Forlorn shreds of clouds scudded across the sky and a bitter wind gnawed at the sturdy woman's bones. But then, it'd been a gloomy month all around. In the Norrington household, near every person had fallen sick with the influenza, and the once bustling squire's manor was deathly silent. Deserted of over half of the staff , few were the footsteps that now echoed the old halls.
Anne Baker, the housekeeper, was one of the few left. The cook was ill, but stayed on as well, fighting through her minor symptoms. As of two days ago they were the last servants caring for the mistress Norrington and her two children. Anne was greyed at the temples and witness to many miserable northern winters. This was the worst she'd ever seen.
It was Christmas Eve that day she scuttled wearily up the hill from the village, leaving behind a healthy family of 10 children and one husband. The family she went to had been far less fortunate. Not three days past little Laurice, that precious gem of two years, had been buried. Her brother, Raven, was ill, and her mother lay on deathbed. Or so was Anne's grim opinion. She'd seen many bouts of influenza, suffered by her friends and family. None who'd had the illness as bad as the Missus Norrington had survived. Anne was exhausted with sorrow and the constant caretaking of the young woman. But she had to go. There was one body that weighed heavy on her mind that day, one small flame of life that had yet to succumb to the fevers, headaches and coughs of the influenza. The youngest member of the family, four month old James, who was likely starved for want of his wet-nurse or mother.
Anne struggled up the last winding path and came to the back stoop. Grey boards creaked in agony beneath her feet, squeaking shrill in the frosty air. Anne's mittened hands fumbled with door, swollen finger joints protesting. She stumbled into the kitchen to exchange a worn smile and nod with Melinda, the cook. Melinda punctuated her greeting with a harsh cough and Anne again thanked God for her blessing of health.
Too many words had been exchanged during the previous days. Their memory still hung, angry and sullen, in the air. Melinda and Anne acknowledged this silently, companions in their grim knowledge. Hope was wearing thin in this house.
Anne hunched by the fire rubbing her arthritic hands in an attempt at warming up. But all heat gained was lost as a forlorn wail echoed through the floors. A chill ran up the women’s spines as the cries grew louder and more despairing. Anne startled herself into the hallway, hissing a disgusted,
"What is that boy doing now?"
Up the stairs the woman stalked, thick skirts bundled around her knees. At the top she paused for breath, leaning into the foyer. Turning to the right - away from the master's cambers where most of the day would be spent - she charged into the nursery.
"JUST WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOUR BROTHER?" The woman was a housekeeper and a baker's wife, but also a mother of ten. She had lungs like a blacksmith's bellows.
Raven scuttled backwards as a miserable rat would, sinking into his bed.
"My head hurts and it won't shut up!" He whined.
"Your baby brother isn't an ‘it’!" was the sharp retort. Radiating fury, Anne strode past the mewling, sickly little rodent that claimed the title of firstborn son to the Norrington Estate. She slipped past that terrible, empty bed where little Laurice had once lain to reach the old cradle that held the youngest. Hushing and the babe, she gently picked poor James up and rocked him in her arms.
The boy was pale from hunger and weak with exhaustion. It tore at her heart to see those little limbs, once so vigorous, curl and wilt as she held him close to her. His mouth gaped like a baby bird's, searching for the milk she didn't have. All he wanted was some attention. Not of the type it seemed Raven had been inflicting on him, though. Anne traced the red marks and small bruises that marked where the four year old had pinched and slapped the boy. As she rubbed his scalp his eyes flickered open and Anne was treated, briefly, to the sight of those clear green eyes his mother had once had. Had once had, before the influenza had clouded them with delirium.
Sternly, she turned to Raven and instructed him to lie in bed until the cook brought him his broth. The whelp sniffed pathetically and buried his head in his pillow. Lips pursed in distaste, Anne left the room.
The day was spent, as many a previous day had been, in care of her delirious mistress. Today, thankfully, the woman wasn't thrashing or violent, so Anne found herself freed to track down some goat's milk upon which she suckled James. As evening fell, Anne and Melinda sat in the kitchen, weary to the bone.
Both knew they should come back tomorrow. But tomorrow was Christmas and neither thought they would have the strength. Long had they dithered over who would stay and who would go. Finally, Melinda brought up the closing point.
"You've a family, Anne, and I don't. You'd best go."
Anne was too tired to argue more. "Aye," she said, "I suppose yer right. I'll be taking the babe with me, though." She jigged James slightly in her arms where he nestled, asleep.
Melinda nodded in agreement. "All's well then."
Anne rose and carefully wrapped herself up. A few skeletal flakes were dancing through the air, threatening freezing temperatures.
"All's not well, Mel, and you know it."
"Aye." The other woman held the door open. "Happy Christmas then."
" 'Tis the lad's first," was grim reply. None spoke that it could be the last.
Author: Pearlsie
Rating: G (unless illness and suggested mild baby abuse bothers you)
Wordcount: 994
Disclaimer: Not mine. Disney's. Any unrecognized characters are mine, however, and I take full blame.
Series: Tales of Christmas Past - James Norrington
It was a gloomy day. Forlorn shreds of clouds scudded across the sky and a bitter wind gnawed at the sturdy woman's bones. But then, it'd been a gloomy month all around. In the Norrington household, near every person had fallen sick with the influenza, and the once bustling squire's manor was deathly silent. Deserted of over half of the staff , few were the footsteps that now echoed the old halls.
Anne Baker, the housekeeper, was one of the few left. The cook was ill, but stayed on as well, fighting through her minor symptoms. As of two days ago they were the last servants caring for the mistress Norrington and her two children. Anne was greyed at the temples and witness to many miserable northern winters. This was the worst she'd ever seen.
It was Christmas Eve that day she scuttled wearily up the hill from the village, leaving behind a healthy family of 10 children and one husband. The family she went to had been far less fortunate. Not three days past little Laurice, that precious gem of two years, had been buried. Her brother, Raven, was ill, and her mother lay on deathbed. Or so was Anne's grim opinion. She'd seen many bouts of influenza, suffered by her friends and family. None who'd had the illness as bad as the Missus Norrington had survived. Anne was exhausted with sorrow and the constant caretaking of the young woman. But she had to go. There was one body that weighed heavy on her mind that day, one small flame of life that had yet to succumb to the fevers, headaches and coughs of the influenza. The youngest member of the family, four month old James, who was likely starved for want of his wet-nurse or mother.
Anne struggled up the last winding path and came to the back stoop. Grey boards creaked in agony beneath her feet, squeaking shrill in the frosty air. Anne's mittened hands fumbled with door, swollen finger joints protesting. She stumbled into the kitchen to exchange a worn smile and nod with Melinda, the cook. Melinda punctuated her greeting with a harsh cough and Anne again thanked God for her blessing of health.
Too many words had been exchanged during the previous days. Their memory still hung, angry and sullen, in the air. Melinda and Anne acknowledged this silently, companions in their grim knowledge. Hope was wearing thin in this house.
Anne hunched by the fire rubbing her arthritic hands in an attempt at warming up. But all heat gained was lost as a forlorn wail echoed through the floors. A chill ran up the women’s spines as the cries grew louder and more despairing. Anne startled herself into the hallway, hissing a disgusted,
"What is that boy doing now?"
Up the stairs the woman stalked, thick skirts bundled around her knees. At the top she paused for breath, leaning into the foyer. Turning to the right - away from the master's cambers where most of the day would be spent - she charged into the nursery.
"JUST WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOUR BROTHER?" The woman was a housekeeper and a baker's wife, but also a mother of ten. She had lungs like a blacksmith's bellows.
Raven scuttled backwards as a miserable rat would, sinking into his bed.
"My head hurts and it won't shut up!" He whined.
"Your baby brother isn't an ‘it’!" was the sharp retort. Radiating fury, Anne strode past the mewling, sickly little rodent that claimed the title of firstborn son to the Norrington Estate. She slipped past that terrible, empty bed where little Laurice had once lain to reach the old cradle that held the youngest. Hushing and the babe, she gently picked poor James up and rocked him in her arms.
The boy was pale from hunger and weak with exhaustion. It tore at her heart to see those little limbs, once so vigorous, curl and wilt as she held him close to her. His mouth gaped like a baby bird's, searching for the milk she didn't have. All he wanted was some attention. Not of the type it seemed Raven had been inflicting on him, though. Anne traced the red marks and small bruises that marked where the four year old had pinched and slapped the boy. As she rubbed his scalp his eyes flickered open and Anne was treated, briefly, to the sight of those clear green eyes his mother had once had. Had once had, before the influenza had clouded them with delirium.
Sternly, she turned to Raven and instructed him to lie in bed until the cook brought him his broth. The whelp sniffed pathetically and buried his head in his pillow. Lips pursed in distaste, Anne left the room.
The day was spent, as many a previous day had been, in care of her delirious mistress. Today, thankfully, the woman wasn't thrashing or violent, so Anne found herself freed to track down some goat's milk upon which she suckled James. As evening fell, Anne and Melinda sat in the kitchen, weary to the bone.
Both knew they should come back tomorrow. But tomorrow was Christmas and neither thought they would have the strength. Long had they dithered over who would stay and who would go. Finally, Melinda brought up the closing point.
"You've a family, Anne, and I don't. You'd best go."
Anne was too tired to argue more. "Aye," she said, "I suppose yer right. I'll be taking the babe with me, though." She jigged James slightly in her arms where he nestled, asleep.
Melinda nodded in agreement. "All's well then."
Anne rose and carefully wrapped herself up. A few skeletal flakes were dancing through the air, threatening freezing temperatures.
"All's not well, Mel, and you know it."
"Aye." The other woman held the door open. "Happy Christmas then."
" 'Tis the lad's first," was grim reply. None spoke that it could be the last.