Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

I ran a hand through my hair, wishing I could do something to ease the anguish I saw in Julian’s eyes. “Sir Miles is beyond our help,” I said, “and Lady Havorford doesn’t want it. But we can still help Kit.”

He took a steadying breath, the straightened his shoulders and nodded toward the double doors. “Come, old friend. It’s time we were going home.”

“Home,” I murmured. I gazed slowly around the perfect bijou of a room and saw grim shadows hovering in every corner. My cottage, with its tilted tree and half-hung decorations, had never seemed so sweet.

The sensible majority of the British population had elected to ride out the storm in the comfort of their own homes. Apart from the inevitable semis, a cadre of emergency vehicles, and a few dozen intrepid fools like ourselves, traffic on the major motorways was nonexistent.

It was no longer snowing, but Paul was forced to drive cautiously, nonetheless. The M40 to Oxford, reduced by the storm to one lane in each direction, was a hazardous maze of abandoned cars and jackknifed trailers made even more challenging by an unpredictable gusting wind that rocked the limo and reduced visibility, on occasion, from yards to inches.

Julian had said nothing since we’d left Havorford House. The depression that had settled over him in the library hung between us like a gray shroud, and I didn’t know how to lift it. The questions he’d asked, about decent men and war, seemed unanswerable.

Sighing, I reached for the hamper Miss Kingsley had sent along to keep starvation at bay if we were stranded. In it I discovered three Cornish game hens, two bottles of claret, and assorted side dishes, all of which looked a good deal more appetizing than anything I’d be able to offer my guests. Will and Rob might be content to suck on frozen drumsticks, but I doubted that Bill’s English relatives would be so easily satisfied. With a soft groan, I looked out at the blowing snow, wondering what my father would make of my half-baked festivities.

“Worrying about your party?” Julian asked.

“Yeah,” I admitted sheepishly, glad of any excuse to get him talking. “Seems pretty trivial, after what we’ve learned today.”

“Christmas traditions aren’t trivial,” he asserted. “They brighten the darkest months of the year.”

“It sure doesn’t feel like Christmas,” I said, closing the hamper. “I don’t know about you, but my head’s so filled with war and suffering that I’m finding it a little hard to believe in Santa.” No sooner had I said the words than I saw, as clearly as I’d seen the pictures in Sir Miles’ memoir, the photograph of my father standing in the ruins of Berlin. I put the hamper on the floor and turned the image over in my mind. “Did I ever tell you that my father was a soldier?”

“No,” said Julian. “You never mentioned it.”

“He landed at Omaha Beach,” I said, “and fought all the way to Berlin. There’s a photograph of him…” I looked out at the snow-blurred landscape and saw instead the snow-covered ruins of a war-ravaged city, frozen in grainy black-and-white. “It’s Christmas in Berlin, just after the war. He’s in his GI uniform and he’s handing out presents to a bunch of German kids. Nothing fancy, just chocolate bars and socks and stuff like that. But the looks on the kids’ faces—it’s like he’s giving them the best presents they’ve ever had.”

“It sounds as though they had no trouble believing in Santa,” said Julian.

“That’s what I’m getting at.” I could almost hear the children’s laughter as my father filled their hands. “See, Julian, I think that’s what a decent man does, after a war. He tries to build a decent world. He doesn’t brag or brood. He grabs a sackful of candy and hands it out to his enemy’s kids. He helps them believe in Santa Claus again.” I rubbed the tip of my nose, embarrassed by my earnestness. “It’s not like starting the United Nations, but—”

“But a decent world is built upon small acts of kindness.” Julian gazed down at the canvas carryall. “It’s something Kit would understand.”

“That’s right,” I said eagerly. “Kit didn’t give in to despair. His father may have left him a dark legacy, but Kit chose to light a candle. He lit candles everywhere he went, through acts of kindness large and small.”

Julian hesitated, then pulled the carryall into his lap and opened the side pocket. “Such as helping a grieving widow,” he said, pulling out the braided loop of straw. “Or closing a dangerous asylum.” He held the Heathermoor ID out to me.

I looked down at Kit’s wild hair and his gentle, intelligent eyes. “Or using your inheritance to feed the hungry.”

Julian paused before adding gruffly, “Or risking your life to save someone else’s.”

I heard the note of self-reproach in his voice and frowned at him. “Or struggling to keep a hostel open,” I stated firmly, “to help the kind of men selfish idiots like me would prefer to ignore.”

A slow, sweet smile crept across his face. “Or seeing goodness where an envious fool like me chose to see madness.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “I guess Kit wouldn’t want us to be depressed about all of that, huh?”

“I’m certain it’s the last thing he’d want.” Julian tucked the braided straw and the Heathermoor ID into the carryall, placed it on the floor, and swung sideways to face me. “We’ll drink his health on Christmas Eve and pray for him on Christmas morning. We’ll fill the darkness with light, Lori. That’s what Kit would want us to do.”

“I suppose that’s what Christmas is all about, really,” I said. “A child bringing the light of hope to a dark world.”

“Very prettily said, madam,” Paul piped up from the front seat. “But don’t let’s forget presents. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without presents, now, would it?”

I grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “No, Paul, it certainly wouldn’t. I hope you like what Bill and I got for you.”

“For me?” Paul’s eyes lit with pleasant anticipation. “Oh, madam, you shouldn’t have….”

His response, as traditional as carols on Christmas morning, banished the last vestiges of gloom from the limo, and triggered a chain of reminiscences that kept us smiling all the way to Oxford. There would be time to ponder war’s myriad tragedies another day, I told myself. Today, hope reigned supreme.

21

I urged Julian to come to my party—such as it was—but he wanted to spend Christmas Eve with his flock, so we dropped him off in Oxford. It was hard to say good-bye to him, but I managed it, without a single tear. He promised to look in on Kit, and I renewed my vow to return to Saint Benedict’s as soon as the holidays were over. As he waved to us, surrounded by his scruffy crew on the crumbling doorstep of his decrepit hostel, I caught a glimpse of heaven in his face. I wondered if the bishop knew what a wise decision he’d made when he’d banished his gadfly assistant to live and work among outcasts. And I wondered if Kit would ever know how grateful I was to him for leading me to Julian.

Paul fled the low-rent district as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his tires, and he didn’t really relax until we were on the way to Finch. A dusky gloom was settling in by the time we reached the village, and the square seemed curiously deserted. Peacock’s pub was dark, the lights were out in Sally Pyne’s tearoom, and a closed sign was hanging on the Emporium’s front door.

“Great,” I moaned, burying my face in my hands. “Everyone’s at the cottage but me and Bill. What am I going to do, Paul? All I’ve got to offer them is a burnt gingerbread.”

“I shouldn’t worry, madam,” Paul soothed. “It’s a giving spirit that counts, isn’t it?”