Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

I stood outside Kit’s cubicle, my palms pressed to the glass, watching his chest rise and fall in the unnaturally regular rhythm induced by the ventilator. I couldn’t approach his bedside—visitors had been barred ever since he’d had his setback—so I spoke to him silently, sending my thoughts through the glass barrier, telling him that I would do everything in my power to keep him from being held captive by his well-intentioned friends.

“Miss Shepherd?”

The sound of Nurse Willoughby’s voice made me jump.

“Sorry to startle you,” said the young red-haired nurse. “I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”

“Of course,” I said.

“There was a woman here earlier today, a friend of Mr. Smith’s—”

“Anne Somerville?” I put in.

“That’s right. She brought something for Mr. Smith. She thought it might comfort him, but… well, it looks rather nasty to me. I was wondering if you’d take it away.”

Nurse Willoughby held out her hand and I took a quick step backward.

“Is it dead?” I said suspiciously, eyeing the object in her hand.

“It’s a toy,” she corrected. She held the stuffed animal up at eye level. “A horse, I think.”

I took the battered plaything from her. The little brown horse with the black mane and tail had been loved nearly to pieces. The seam in his belly had been resewn with red thread, his hide was patched in three places, and the black yarn of his mane was hopelessly tangled. As he flopped in my hands, his legs splayed, his nose touching my palm, I felt my heart melt. It must have cost Anne Somerville dearly to leave such a cherished companion behind.

Nurse Willoughby patted his head apologetically. “We can’t keep him here, I’m afraid. He’s positively virulent.”

“I’ll take care of him,” I assured her. I tucked the brown horse into my shoulder bag and turned once again to gaze at Kit. Did he know how many people cared about him? I wondered. Did he know how many hearts he’d touched?

Slowly, reluctantly, I turned away and headed for home, hoping that a message from Miss Kingsley awaited me.

I stopped by Anscombe Manor on the way home, to have a word with Emma Harris. Emma knew everything there was to know about two subjects: gardening and computers. I was hoping her computer skills would help me dig up information on the names listed in the charred scroll.

I found her in the great hall, a half-timbered banquet room Derek had just finished restoring. She was hanging evergreen swags from the massive rafters when I entered the hall, but put down her hammer and descended the ladder when she saw me.

“No Peter again this Christmas,” she announced, pulling a wry face. “Derek had high hopes of seeing his peripatetic son this year, but it’s the one gift I can’t give him.”

“Is Peter still up the Amazon?” I asked.

“With a paddle, one hopes.” Emma beckoned to me to join her at the long trestle table in the center of the hall. The table was piled with ornaments and lights, packets of tinsel and boxes of candles. “All systems are go for the Christmas Eve party here. Let’s make sure I’ve got it right: The festivities will kick off around noon at your place. Everyone will go from there to the schoolhouse to see the Nativity play, then come here for the rest of the evening. Is that the plan?”

“That’s the plan,” I said. “And again, thanks hugely for putting up my out-of-town guests.”

“I’m glad to do it. It’ll help take Derek’s mind off of Peter.” She offered her hammer to me. “Haven’t come to lend a hand by any chance, have you?”

“Just the opposite,” I said sheepishly. “I’ve come to ask for your help yet again.” I took the scroll out of my shoulder bag, stripped away the brown paper, and carefully peeled off the outermost sheet of onionskin. “Would you check out some of the names listed here? I need to know if they belong to men who were killed while serving with Bomber Command in World War Two.”

Emma took the sheet from me and examined the tiny handwriting. “I’ll get on to the Imperial War Museum,” she said. “Someone there should be able to check the records for me.” She shook her head, giving me a dubious look. “It’s a strange subject to be researching at Christmastime. Where’d the list come from?”

“Come over for a cup of tea and I’ll tell you all about it,” I offered. “Right now I have to get home and feed William. He’s got a rehearsal tonight.”

“Give him my condolences,” Emma said, with a laugh. “Nice coat, by the way. And I covet those boots.”

I brushed aside the compliments, feeling vaguely guilty about the amount of money I’d spent on my winter wardrobe. “They’re warm,” I allowed.

“They’re gorgeous,” Emma retorted. She held up the scroll. “I can’t guarantee speedy delivery. I’ve got an awful lot on my plate.”

“Most of which I piled there,” I acknowledged. “Just do the best you can and I’ll be even deeper in your debt.”

It was dark by the time I reached the cottage, so it wasn’t until I’d pulled into the graveled drive that I saw the parked Land Rover.

“Saint Christopher?” I said, bewildered. I shut off the engine and hurried inside, going straight to the living room without bothering to take off my coat.

Julian Bright sat in Bill’s favorite armchair, with Will in the crook of his arm, chatting easily with Willis, Sr. When he saw me, he jumped to his feet.

“Hello.” His smile was tentative, as if he was unsure of his welcome.

“Hi,” I replied.

Julian shifted Will from one arm to the other. “May I speak with you?”

“Sure.” I glanced self-consciously at Willis, Sr., then jutted my chin toward the front door. “It’s not too bad out. Let’s take a walk.”

Julian handed Will to Willis, Sr., and followed me into the hall. He grabbed his black leather jacket from the coat rack and slipped it on as we stepped outside.

The air was crisp, the sky vibrant with stars, and the snow crunched underfoot as we walked down the flagstone path. Julian hunched his shoulders against the chilly breeze and tucked his hands deep into his jacket pockets, but when I slipped on an icy patch, he reached out quick as lightning and caught my arm. He kept hold of my arm as he stepped in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

His hand was warm and strong. My breath came raggedly, showing white against his jacket as I recalled, with alarming clarity, the compact muscles beneath the supple leather. My heart gave a disturbing flutter and I quickly averted my gaze, saying, “I’m the one who should apologize.”

“No.” Julian released my arm and stood back to survey the cottage. His brown eves glittered in the light from the bow windows as his gaze traveled up the mellow stone walls to the snow-covered slate roof. “It’s enchanting… like something out of a fairy tale. How can you bear to leave? If it were mine, I’d close the doors behind me and never come out again.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I chided. “You’d turn it into a cottage hospital or a refuge for unwed mothers.”

“Unwed mothers don’t need refuges anymore.” Julian turned his face toward me. “Show me where you found him.”

We crossed the graveled drive and stood before the lilac bushes, gazing at the packed snow that marked the spot where Kit had lain. I showed Julian where Bill had knelt to check Kit’s pulse, and where I’d bent to lift Kit’s legs as we’d carried him into the cottage. I didn’t mention the shudder of revulsion that had passed through me at the thought of touching Kit’s ragged trousers.

Julian listened without comment, then walked with me up the graveled drive to the bridle path. The stars were bright enough to light our way, and Nell’s sleigh had left a trail of tamped snow for us to follow. We walked in silence, save for the crunch of snow beneath our boots and the creak of branches in the rising wind. It wasn’t until we’d rounded a bend and the lights from the cottage had vanished behind us that Julian spoke.