Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“Quite so.” Willis, Sr., tented his hands over his silk-lined waistcoat and tapped the tips of his index fingers together. “Perhaps we could ask Miss Kingsley to look into the matter.”

I gaped at my father-in-law, awestruck. “William, you’re a genius. I’ll get right on it.”

Miss Kingsley was the concierge at the Flamborough Hotel in London, and a longtime friend of the Willis family. She was discreet, efficient, and blessed with an uncanny ability to ferret out information on the most obscure individuals. If anyone could bore through a wall of institutional confidentiality, it would be the redoubtable Miss Kingsley.

“Would it be too great an imposition to request that you postpone your telephone call to Miss Kingsley until after we have dined?” said Willis, Sr. “I have fed my grandsons, but I have not yet had the opportunity to feed myself.”

A wave of guilt dampened my jubilation. I’d been so preoccupied with Kit Smith that I hadn’t bothered to ask how my father-in-law’s day had gone, much less given a moment’s thought to our evening meal.

“Dinner’ll be on the table in twenty minutes,” I promised, and when Willis, Sr., began to rise from his chair, I ordered him to stay put. “Relax,” I said. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

I devoted the rest of the evening to hearth and home. I whipped up a meal for Willis, Sr., bathed Will and Rob and got them off to bed, then invited my father-in-law to join me in the kitchen while I baked a double batch of angel cookies, in a belated attempt to celebrate my mother’s birthday. By the time Willis, Sr., turned in for the night, it was too late to telephone Miss Kingsley.

It wasn’t too late, however, to speak with Aunt Dimity. Tired though I was, I went to the study, pulled the blue journal from its niche on the bookshelves, and curled up on the tall leather armchair before the hearth.

I yipped in alarm when the journal sprang open in my hands.

It’s about time. The familiar copperplate raced across the page in a nearly illegible scrawl. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me. Did you go to the Radcliffe? Were you allowed in to see the tramp? Have you learned anything more about him?

“His name’s Kit Smith,” I began, and for the second time that evening, recounted everything I’d learned about the man in the Radcliffe Infirmary. When I’d finished, Dimity’s handwriting resumed, this time at its normal pace.

I do not remember anyone called Kit Smith. Tell me again about the medals in the suede pouch.

“There’s a DSO, a DFC, an Air Force Cross, and a Pathfinder badge, among others,” I told her. “Why? Did you know someone who flew bombers during the war?”

In February 1943, I was given a temporary assignment with Bomber Command, at a base up in Lincolnshire. I came to know many aircrews, but none of the men with whom I worked were so highly decorated.

I slumped in the chair, discouraged. “Then we still don’t know why he risked his life to come here. Julian’d say that it was just another example of Kit’s crazy behavior.”

Then Father Bright would be jumping to conclusions. We may not know Kit’s reasons for coming to the cottage, but that doesn’t mean he had none. I do wish you’d been able to see Kit more clearly. Your description of him remains woefully inadequate. Around forty years of age, tall, slender—well, he would be slender, wouldn’t he, if he’s suffering from malnutrition?

I bit my lip. I hadn’t exactly lied to Dimity, but I hadn’t told her the whole truth, either. “The cubicle was dimly lit,” I said, “and Kit was wearing an oxygen mask.”

And since Father Bright and the Somervilles saw Kit as you did, through a curtain of hair and beard, they wouldn’t be able to describe him either. You must return to the Radcliffe after they’ve removed Kit’s mask and take a good, long look at him. I will search my memory for anyone called Kit Smith, but I’m still counting on you to bring me an accurate description.

“I will,” I promised, but as I watched Aunt Dimity’s handwriting fade from the page, I wasn’t sure I’d keep my promise.

I closed the blue journal and looked across the study to the desk where I’d left Kit’s carryall when I’d returned from Oxford. I’d borrowed the bag from Julian, telling him, and myself, that I hadn’t had time to examine its contents thoroughly, and that a closer inspection might provide a further clue to Kit’s identity. I wondered now if my reasons for keeping the bag had less to do with discovering Kit’s identity than with experiencing his presence.

I closed my eyes and saw Kit’s face so clearly I could almost count his lashes. I saw the creases at the corners of his eyes, the sculpted cheekbones, the curving lips, and the fine, straight nose, each feature bathed and softened by golden light. Once again, those violet eyes gazed up at me and that sweet smile pierced my heart.

Why hadn’t I described Kit to Aunt Dimity? Why had I withheld from her the very information she desired most? Was I afraid I might describe him all too accurately?

Suddenly, at the very edge of my hearing, I heard the distant sound of a howling wind. I trembled slightly and opened my eyes, scanning the ivy-webbed window for signs of an impending storm, but the ivy hung as still as a stenciled pattern against the glass panes. I shook my head to clear it, ran a hand through my dark crop of curls, and returned the journal to the shelves, telling myself that I was more tired than I’d thought. Kit had been caught in the blizzard, not me.

As I trudged upstairs to bed, it occurred to me that Kit’s sleep might well be troubled by the memory of a howling wind. It also occurred to me that my feelings for him might not be entirely philanthropic.

9

When I saw the faint circles beneath Willis, Sr.’s clear gray eyes the next morning, I put them down to grandchild-induced battle fatigue. My sons were perfect angels, of course, but at nine months even angels could be a handful.

I had no intention of letting my father-in-law fly solo again. Once I’d finished making a few phone calls in the privacy of the study, I’d join him and the twins in the living room and resume my dual roles as mother and daughter-in-law of the year.

The first call was to Dr. Pritchard, who informed me that Kit’s condition had deteriorated during the night. They’d managed to stabilize him, but he remained comatose and was now on a ventilator. The doctor concluded his report by telling me not to worry. I bit back a shout of “How?”, thanked him politely, and hung up the phone.

Every cell in my body wanted to dash out of the cottage and run to Kit’s side, but I told myself not to be a fool. Kit was in good hands, and my presence at his bedside would make no difference to his recovery. I thought briefly of telephoning Julian Bright, then realized that he would already know of Kit’s setback, since, according to Nurse Willoughby, he visited the Radcliffe every morning.

My second call was to the Willis mansion in Boston, but I was informed by the housekeeper that Bill had already left for Hyram Collier’s funeral. I envisioned Mrs. Collier standing over her husband’s grave, shivering in a bitter northeast wind, and was gladder than ever that Bill was there to comfort her.

My third call was to Miss Kingsley, who accepted her assignment with alacrity, promising to get back to me as soon as possible with whatever information she could glean about Kit’s stay at the Heathermoor Asylum.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I asked. “The Flamborough must be pretty busy at this time of year.”

“I could do with the distraction,” Miss Kingsley told me. “If I hear ‘Good King Wenceslas’ one more time, I swear I’ll take a gun to the roof and start picking off Salvation Army bell ringers.”