Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“I’ve examined my conscience,” he said, “and discovered an element of truth in what you said to me at Saint Benedict’s.”

“The last time I looked, arrogance wasn’t a mortal sin,” I told him.

“Not the arrogance,” said Julian. “The jealousy.” He paused to gaze up at the stars. “Do you remember asking me about my clerical collar?”

I thought back to our conversation in the Land Rover, on the way to Blackthorne Farm. “I asked if you’d taken it off to avoid unnecessary confrontations.”

“And I gave an unsatisfactory reply.” Julian scuffed at the snow with the toe of his black leather boot. “The truth isn’t easy for me to admit. I told myself at the time that I did it to become a better priest, but I know now that my decision had more to do with ego than vocation.” He shuddered slightly as an icy gust rattled the trees. “I’ve worked hard to keep Saint Benedict’s open, Lori, to keep a roof over the men’s heads and food in their bellies. Yet my flock, for the most part, treats me as nothing more than a well-meaning bureaucrat.

“They treated Kit as a pastor. From the moment he arrived, they confided in him, asked his advice, and left me to carry on with the paperwork.” Julian fixed his gaze on the snowy path. “I envied his rapport with the men. I thought removing my collar would make it easier for them to approach me, but it wasn’t about clothing. It was about grace. Envy blinded me to the very quality that drew the men to Kit. Where there was goodness, I chose to see madness.” Julian let out his breath, like a pricked balloon. “What would I do if Christ walked into my hostel, Lori? Would I envy him? Would I think him mad?”

“You’d put a roof over his head and food in his belly,” I said softly. “Those aren’t small things.” I hesitated, then slipped my arm through his. “It’s no use trying to be perfect, Julian. Sometimes we have to settle for being good enough.”

He peered down at me anxiously. “But am I? Am I good enough?”

I laughed in disbelief. “I wish you could see yourself walking through the Radcliffe. You can’t go ten steps without someone calling out to you. They love you there, and they need you. Just like the men at Saint Benedict’s.”

“Whom I’ve failed,” Julian said.

“It’s not your failure,” I declared. “You’re doing your best by those men, and anyone who does his best is good enough for me. God’s lucky to have you on her side.”

Julian’s slow smile was as beautiful as the star-filled sky. “She is, is she?”

“She certainly is,” I said brusquely. “Now stop feeling sorry for yourself, Julian Bright, and help me help Kit.”

He stood to attention. “What can I do?”

I told him about Miss Kingsley’s assignment to look into Kit’s stay at the Heathermoor Asylum, Luke Boswell’s acquaintance with Kit, and Rupert’s unexpected gift. I was particularly careful to explain why Rupert had given the scroll to me instead of to Julian.

“Doesn’t want to add to my burdens, eh?” Julian shook his head. “I’ll have to speak with Rupert about that.”

“Don’t you dare,” I threatened. “Rupert enjoys looking after you. Let him.”

Julian conceded the point, then returned to the subject of the scroll. “A roll call of the dead to go with the service for the burial of the dead,” he said. “You may be right after all, Lori. It seems that Kit was holding private prayer vigils at the bomber bases in Cambridgeshire. But why?”

I raised my hands, palms toward the sky. “There has to be a personal connection. Maybe his father served with Bomber Command and made a deathbed wish that his son go out and pray for his fellow airmen. We’ll know more after Emma checks out some of the names.”

“Kit’s father…” Julian stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “If he really did lecture at one of the colleges, someone might remember him. I’ll ask around.”

“How?” I asked. “We don’t know his name.”

“I’ll try Christopher Smith,” said Julian. “Kit’s a diminutive of Christopher, and fathers have been known to name sons after themselves.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “There’s one other thing I’d like you to do.”

“Name it,” said Julian.

“Telephone your contacts in the refuge network,” I said. “Find out if Kit stayed in other shelters. If we can reconstruct his movements, we may be able to figure out where he came from originally.”

“And perhaps find his family.” Julian blew on his cupped palms and rubbed his hands together. “Might be a bit tricky, though, the telephoning.”

I slapped my forehead. “I forgot. Your phone’s been disconnected.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my cellular phone. “Here, use mine.”

“I couldn’t,” Julian protested. “It’s far too expensive.”

I thrust the cell phone into his hands. “It’s for Kit’s sake, remember? And don’t worry about the expense. I’ve got tons of—” I broke off as an awful thought intruded. “What time is it?”

Julian checked his watch. “A quarter to five.”

“Oh my Go”—I caught myself—“gosh! We have to get back right away.” I grabbed Julian’s arm and hurried him up the bridle path, kicking myself for forgetting about Willis, Sr.’s rehearsal.

Willis, Sr., had his coat in hand when we came bursting through the front door of the cottage. I gasped out an apology, which he accepted gracefully, but it wasn’t until he’d driven off in the Mercedes that I thought to ask if he’d had dinner.

“I am the worst daughter-in-law who ever lived,” I said mournfully, watching the Mercedes’ taillights through the bow windows.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Julian came up behind me and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’d say you’re good enough.”

I sent Julian off with the rest of the angel cookies to share with the men at Saint Benedict’s. When he’d gone, it was playtime, bath time, and finally, bedtime for the twins.

After clearing the kitchen, straightening the living room, and mopping up the bathroom, I was too worn out to even consider decorating the cottage. Instead, I carried Kit’s canvas carryall upstairs to the master bedroom, placing it on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, where the boys were less likely to get at it. As I tucked the brown horse in beside the suede pouch, I wondered for the thousandth time what had brought Kit to a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, in the midst of a winter storm.

With an ear attuned to the telephone, and Miss Kingsley’s much-anticipated call, I tore the wrapping paper from the book Luke had loaned me, scanned the table of contents, and saw a chapter title that caught my interest: “The Birth of the Pathfinder Force.” Intrigued, I sat on the edge of the bed and started reading.

Two hours later, I heard a sneeze and glanced up from my book to see Willis, Sr., standing in the doorway.

“I have looked in on my grandsons,” he informed me, “and now I shall retire for the night.”

“Let me get you a bite to eat,” I insisted, rising hastily from the bed.

“I am not excessively hungry.” Willis, Sr., touched a linen handkerchief to his patrician nose. “Did you learn anything of value in Oxford today?”

I needed no further encouragement to tell him everything I’d learned about the mysterious, charismatic man known as Kit Smith.

I repeated the story to Bill three hours later, when he telephoned from Boston. Willis, Sr., had gone to bed and the boys were sleeping soundly in the nursery. I’d been lying on the bed in the master bedroom for some time, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling, when Bill called.

“You’ve taken a surprising interest in this Kit Smith,” Bill observed, echoing Luke Boswell’s words.