Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

I brought with me the funds raised by the Nativity play, boxes of food collected by the villagers, and most of the toys Bill and I had purchased for the twins. The food and funds would go to Saint Benedict’s, but the toys would find a home in the children’s wards at the Radcliffe. Will and Rob, who’d spent their first Christmas playing happily with empty boxes and wrapping paper, would never miss them.

Kit had been disconnected from the bank of monitors and moved from the glass-walled cubicle to a private room, but Nurse Willoughby was still in attendance. When I asked after Julian, she told me that he’d missed his morning rounds two days in a row, owing to a massive plumbing failure at Saint Benedict’s. She looked at me askance when the distressing news brought a smile to my face, and left me at the door to Kit’s room with the usual admonitions about over tiring our patient.

Kit was dozing when I entered. His hospital bed had been cranked into its upright position, and the lamp on the bedside table had been left on. The room was pleasant but anonymous. I saw no sign of Christmas anywhere, save for the brightly wrapped gifts the villagers had sent, which lay unopened on the windowsill.

Kit’s close-cropped hair had grown out enough to need combing since I’d last seen him, but he was still clean-shaven. The windburned patches on his face had healed, and his collarbones no longer protruded so sharply beneath the pale-blue hospital gown. His hands, lying peacefully atop the coverlet, were miraculously unblemished by frostbite. I hung my coat on the back of the door, set the canvas carryall on the bedside table, and stood gazing at his hands, remembering the first time I’d seen them, splayed in the snow beneath my lilac bushes.

“You’ve been here before,” said a voice. It was low and musical, every bit as magical as Anne Somerville and Father Danos had remembered it.

“Yes.” I gazed into the violet eyes I’d first seen scarcely ten days ago and felt as if I’d known them all of my life. “I’m Lori. Lori Shepherd.”

“My good angel,” said Kit. “Nurse Willoughby’s told me about you.”

“Nurse Willoughby’s prone to exaggeration,” I warned. “I’ve got a long way to go before I earn my wings.”

“Nurse Willoughby also told me that Dimity Westwood is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “She died at about the same time you started your journey. I don’t suppose you spent much time scanning obits while you were on the road.”

“I had other, more practical uses for newspaper.” Kit’s eyes twinkled briefly, then clouded over. “I still can’t believe she’s gone. I somehow thought she’d go on forever, like the Pyms.”

“Why did you need to see her so badly?” I asked. “I mean, the weather was so awful and you were so sick…”

“I was too ill to know how ill I was.” Kit smoothed the edge of the coverlet with his fingers. “But Dimity was always a part of the plan. Once I’d finished my journey, I wasn’t sure what to do next. I hoped Dimity would tell me.”

“You came to her for advice,” I said.

“And to thank her. She helped me once before, you see.” His restless hands became still. “When my mother died, Dimity told me that grief could be a teacher. It could make me more aware of other people’s pain and better able to ease it. I was too young to understand her then, but years later her words came back to me. They were like a beacon, lighting the way through the darkest days of my life. If it hadn’t been for Dimity, grief might have overwhelmed me. Instead, it became my ally, helping me to help others.” Kit’s lips quirked upward in a small, ironic smile. “I even brought a gift for her, to thank her for her guidance.”

I took the suede pouch from the carryall and passed it to him, saying, “This was in your coat pocket when my husband and I found you.”

Kit opened the pouch, but instead of spilling the contents onto the coverlet, he fished out a single item and placed it in my palm. “It’s a Pathfinder badge,” he said softly. “I wanted Dimity to have it. I wish I could have told her how much her words meant to me.”

I closed my hand over the slender golden eagle. “I’m sure she’s still listening.”

“You may be right.” Kit drew the pouch’s drawstrings tight and returned it to the carryall. “You’ll think it daft, but for the past few days I’ve had the strongest sense of her presence.” He grimaced ruefully. “She’s been scolding me, telling me to stop worrying my friends and wake up.”

“I’m glad she got through to you,” I said, smiling inwardly, “because I have a couple of job offers to pass along.” I told him of Mr. Barlow’s offer of employment and of a brand-new scheme I’d worked out with the Harrises. “Emma and Derek will need someone to run the stable, come spring,” I concluded. “And Derek’ll have an apartment fitted out by then, overlooking the stable yard and the old orchard. The job’s yours, if you want it.”

“There’s no place I’d rather be than Anscombe Manor.” Kit lowered his dark lashes. “But I no longer have the right to live there.”

“Yes,” I said, “you do.” I took the blue journal from my shoulder bag and placed it in his hands. “I’ve brought a… a message for you, from Dimity. I’ll wait outside while you read it.”

I left the room quickly, before he could ask any questions, and stood in the corridor, just outside his door, wondering if I’d been right to entrust him with the secret of the blue journal. I wasn’t worried about him betraying my trust so much as having a relapse when Aunt Dimity’s handwriting appeared. The blue journal had given me a turn when I’d first seen it in action, and I’d been in tip-top health at the time.

Still, I reminded myself, drastic situations called for drastic measures, and only Dimity could provide Kit with the answers he so desperately needed.

“Lori!” Julian’s shout cut through the background noise in the bustling corridor as he took the long hallway at a run. When he slid to a stop in front of me, he was out of breath and flushed with exertion, as though he’d jogged all the way from Saint Benedict’s. “I’d’ve been here sooner, but I’ve been up to my elbows in… well, never mind. How’s Kit?” he asked, looking eagerly at the door.

“He’s fine, but he needs to be alone for a while,” I cautioned. “I’ve brought him some new information about his father. He needs time to digest it.”

“What new information?” Julian asked.

I took a deep breath. “The good news is that Kit wasn’t responsible for his father’s death. The bad news is that Sir Miles was more deeply disturbed than Kit realized.”

“Few blessings are unmixed,” Julian observed. “Who told you about Sir Miles?”

“I read something Dimity Westwood wrote about him,” I replied, telling the exact truth and no more. “And given a choice between Lady Havorford’s version of the truth and Dimity’s, I’ll take Dimity’s every time.”

Julian sighed. “Lady Havorford is a troubled soul. Hatred is poisoning her spirit.”

“She’s trouble, all right,” I said. “But she won’t bother Kit anymore. He’s got a new family now, and we’ll stand by him.”

“Amen.” Julian stood back to examine me. “You’re looking remarkable cheerful, Lori. Was Father Christmas kind to you?”

I colored to my roots as I remembered just how kind Father Christmas had been once I’d dragged him off to bed on Christmas Eve.

“If I’m cheerful, it’s because I’ve come up with a killer fund-raising scheme for Saint Benedict’s,” I said, hastily redirecting the conversation.

Julian grinned. “Do tell.”

“It’s your idea, really.” I reached into my shoulder bag and handed him a slip of paper. “It’s my father’s recipe for angel cookies. You told me that I could make a fortune selling them, so I thought, why not use them to raise money for the hostel? Get it?” I held my hands in the air, framing an imaginary slogan. “Be an angel, support Saint Benedict’s.”