Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I stood in the doorway until Saint Christopher was out of sight, then returned to the kitchen and looked pointedly at Will. “That’s Father Bright,” I told him, brushing my knuckles lightly across my chin. “Not Papa.”

15

I was in bed and asleep before Willis, Sr., returned from the rehearsal, so I didn’t hear about it until he joined me in the nursery early the next morning. Rob was fully dressed and playing in his crib while I sat on the floor, dressing his brother.

“What a beautiful morning!” Willis, Sr., exclaimed. He lifted Rob from the crib and waltzed him to the window. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful day?”

“Why do I have a beautiful feeling that everything’s going your way?” I pulled Will’s pants up over his fresh diaper and reached for his socks. “The rehearsal went well, did it?”

Willis, Sr., kissed Rob’s nose and beamed out at the world in general. “It could not have been more satisfactory. Mrs. Kitchen’s costume no longer jingles, Mr. Farnham did not once topple from the stage, and Lady Eleanor’s performance was flawless.”

No more sicking up, I thought, chuckling softly.

“Yet it must be said,” Willis, Sr., continued, “that the most pleasing aspect of the entire evening was Mrs. Bunting’s transformation. Everyone spoke of it, but I believe Mr. Barlow put it best. ‘The vicar’s sermon,’ he said, ‘put a bit of snap in Lilian’s stockings.’”

“William!” I protested, laughing.

A distant look came to Willis, Sr.’s gray eyes as he turned to face me. “I wish you could have seen her, Lori, ordering Mrs. Kitchen to remove the drapery rings from the hem of her costume. Mrs. Bunting was”—he struggled to find a word adequate to the situation— “magnificent.”

“No comments on your American accent?” I hazarded.

“None at all,” Willis, Sr., replied. “Mrs. Bunting is a most discerning woman and a brilliant director.” He sat on the window seat and shifted Rob to his lap. “A humanitarian as well.”

“She should be,” I said, twiddling Will’s toes. “She’s the vicar’s wife.”

“It was in her capacity as director, however, that Mrs. Bunting made the unilateral decision to donate the play’s proceeds to Saint Benedict’s Hostel for Transient Men.”

I straightened. “How did she know about Saint Benedict’s? I didn’t tell her about it.”

Willis, Sr., took a sudden interest in Rob’s fingernails. “I may have mentioned Father Bright’s predicament to her, in passing. I fear that our modest donation will do little to remedy the situation at Saint Benedict’s, but one must do what one can, mustn’t one?”

“Yes,” I said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “One must.”

Willis, Sr., bounced Rob on his knee. “I wish to move back into the nursery,” he announced. “I am fully recovered from my recent indisposition, and the master bedroom is much too far away from my grandsons.”

“We’ll move you back tonight,” I promised. “But before then we’re going to bring a little Christmas to the cottage. I’ll whip up a batch of gingerbread men after breakfast, then we’ll get cracking on those decorations.”

“I look forward to assisting you,” Willis, Sr., said, rising. “My staff has never permitted me to decorate my own home….”

By noon it was clear that the Christmas fairy had put a curse on the cottage. Every one of my gingerbread men burned to a crisp, filling the air with smoke instead of the spicy-sweet aroma I’d intended. The living tree insisted on listing to one side, no matter how carefully we adjusted its root ball, and Willis, Sr., whacked his thumb with the hammer he was using to hang the mistletoe. I don’t know what the boys made of certain exclamations they may have overheard, but I prayed they wouldn’t repeat them to Bill.

We achieved very little after lunch, thanks to a steady stream of villagers bearing gifts. The vicar’s sermon and the snap in Lilian’s stockings had evidently had an impact on the community’s group conscience, because the gifts weren’t meant for us. They were meant for Kit.

Sally Pyne brought a box of hand-dipped chocolates from her tearoom; the Peacocks, a bottle of homemade brandy from the pub. Able Farnham dropped off a basket of fruit from his greengrocer’s shop, and George Wetherhead delivered a pile of old magazines.

“I’ve spent a fair amount of time in hospitals,” said Mr. Wetherhead, leaning heavily on his three-pronged cane. “The days’ll pass more quickly if the young chap has something to read.”

The most amazing gift of all came from Peggy Kitchen. The doughty widow had assembled a full set of winter clothing from the stock in the Emporium—wool socks, insulated boots, a warm sweater, heavy trousers, leather gloves, even a down-filled, hooded parka.

“If the sizes aren’t right,” Peggy said gruffly, “tell Mr. Smith he can exchange them the next time he’s in Finch.”

“I will, Peggy,” I told her, and my gruffness came from a tightening throat.

Aunt Dimity’s wise prediction chimed inside my head all afternoon. They’re good people, at heart, she’d written. Once they overcome their fears, they’ll do what’s right, you’ll see. I did see, and what I saw made me realize that I still had a lot to learn about—and from—my neighbors.

I sent each of them away with a box of angel cookies, and felt a measure of satisfaction at having carried out at least one of my father’s traditions. As I set their gifts aside, though, I felt a rising sense of restlessness.

Their concern for Kit had rekindled my own. It had been lingering just below the surface all day long. Now it came back full force, filling me with frustration and making it impossible for me focus on any of the tasks Willis, Sr., and I had set for ourselves. Between his lack of experience and my lack of enthusiasm, the decorations went up in a somewhat haphazard fashion. If the Christmas fairy’s curse had spoiled the morning, my own impatience tainted the afternoon.

When the telephone rang in the middle of dinner, I ran to answer it. “Julian?” I said eagerly.

“Sorry to disappoint you, love,” said Bill, “but it’s only me.”

I gave a shaky laugh and wondered what was wrong with me. It was the second time in as many days that I’d snatched up the phone, hoping to hear Julian’s voice.

“I’m never disappointed to hear from you,” I told my husband. “But I’ll be a lot happier when you’re not three thousand miles away. When are you coming home?”

“I wanted to surprise you by coming home today,” Bill said, “but an ice storm’s paralyzed Boston. Logan’s been shut down for the past twenty-four hours.”

I groaned and leaned my head on my hand. “When I write this chapter in my autobiography, I’m going to call it ‘The Blizzards That Ate Christmas.’”

“I’ve chartered a flight,” Bill said quickly. “The pilot’s assured me that we’ll take off as soon as the runways are open. I promise you, Lori, I’ll be home by Christmas if I have to swim the Atlantic.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All I care about is that you get home safely and in one piece, Bill. Don’t worry about Christmas. We won’t start it without you.”

I hung up the phone and looked over at the mantelpiece, where the lacy glass star rested in splendid isolation. Willis, Sr., had offered to put it on the top of the badly listing tree, but I’d forbidden it. Crowning the tree would be Bill’s privilege, just as it had been my father’s.

I checked in with Emma the following morning, to see if she’d discovered anything about the owner of Kit Smith’s medals, but she’d been too busy baking to sit down at the computer. It took an effort of the will to keep from insisting that she put Christmas aside for Kit’s sake. Not everyone, I reminded myself, shared my concern for his well-being.