O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “It must be destroyed before the train passes over it,” Darren reminded his cohort, focusing his binoculars on the structure being built for viewing the official opening. “Casualties tend to draw a more determined investigation by the police.”

  Daffyd yanked his arm from Darren’s grip and picked up the bag of dynamite. “You can depend on us,” he snarled. “Don’t think we don’t know you stiffed the Clerkenwell crew. Just make sure we get paid.”

  Chapter Four

  Crackers

  After holding out her chair, Brock took his seat next to Samantha at the dinner table. Christmas had always been a time of great feasting and merriment in the Hindley household. Brock’s stiff upper lip behavior had put a damper on things. Still miffed with his unseasonal demeanor, she stifled another giggle when her father offered her fiancé—a strict teetotaler—a glass of wine.

  Brock grimaced, placing his hand over the glass. “You know I’m a…”

  “Oh yes,” her father cut in. “Sorry. Slipped my mind,” he said, winking at Samantha.

  It was to be expected her naughty parent would try to lighten the mood, but Samantha suddenly had a dreadful vision of a future filled with bleak Christmases. Any children that resulted from their marriage might never know the happy times she’d experienced as a child. Brock had even frowned at the colorful paper chains festooned in every part of Hindley House.

  She chewed her bottom lip as the dishes of food were passed. Upon first meeting Brock, she’d admired his serious side. Most young men of her acquaintance were shallow and frivolous. Brock was right that an ambitious barrister who hoped to become a partner in a prestigious legal firm couldn’t be flippant. He truly was a great catch for a girl of nineteen and a half, past the age when most were married and had children of their own. When he advanced in the firm, her social status would rise considerably. Perhaps her parents made him nervous. Once they had exchanged vows and Brock was her husband…

  Her throat constricted when she noticed him eyeing the mound of food on her father’s plate with disdain. In sharp contrast, he helped himself to one of everything—one slice of dark turkey meat, one roasted potato, one Brussels sprout and one carrot. Nose in the air, he declined the gravy of which her mother was justifiably proud and raised his hands to ward off the bowl of stuffing when it came his way. It annoyed her that he didn’t seem to realize or care that he was insulting her mother’s Herculean efforts to ensure Cook provided a hearty Christmas dinner.

  Distracted when Grace thrust the end of a cracker under her nose, she took hold and pulled. Her sister squealed with glee when she won. The paper hat was soon atop her golden curls. “Why was the snowman looking through the carrots at the greengrocer’s shop?” she asked, reading from the slip of paper she’d found inside the cracker.

  “He was picking his nose,” her father declared.

  Grace pouted. “Daddy!”

  “Sorry, but it was too easy,” he replied, settling his own paper hat on his balding head and squinting at his motto. “What did Adam say the day before Christmas?”

  Samantha knew the answer, but she allowed her father his punchline.

  “It’s Christmas, Eve,” he bellowed.

  Everyone laughed heartily, except Brock.

  Determined to beard the dragon, Samantha offered him her cracker. “Pull with me.”

  “If you insist,” he replied, taking hold of the very end.

  She pulled too hard, yanking the cracker out of his hand entirely.

  “You win,” he sneered.

  It was unlikely he would wear a paper hat even if he won, but it just wouldn’t be Christmas if she didn’t wear one. Ignoring his pained expression, she nestled the hat atop her blonde hair.

  Her mother picked up the discarded motto. “What do you call a train loaded with toffee?” she asked timidly.

  “Oh, oh, I know this one,” Grace shouted. “A chew chew train.”

  Everyone groaned.

  Brock cleared his throat. “Speaking of trains, I’m afraid I must leave. Early tomorrow morning, I am scheduled to attend a meeting of shareholders about the new bridge over the Severn. Last minute details concerning the official opening. If you’ll excuse me. Thank you for a delicious dinner, Mrs. Hindley,” he said without sincerity as he got to his feet.

  Peeved, Samantha deemed it interesting he’d eaten the one thing on his plate that wasn’t up to her mother’s standards—the rock hard Brussels sprout.

  “But tomorrow’s Boxing Day,” Grace accused.

  “I’m aware of that,” he replied as if speaking to a nincompoop.

  His announcement about the meeting held the first hint of enthusiasm in his voice they’d heard all day. Samantha knew he’d been charged by his employer to simply record the minutes, but the smug look on his face might lead one to believe he’d be chairing the gathering. She hadn’t mentioned Brock’s tenuous connection to the bridge which would sound the death knell for the ferry across the Severn her father captained.

  She’d looked forward to dancing with her fiancé at the Annual Policeman’s Ball the day after Boxing Day. The local constabulary invited her father every year, as a courtesy to a local man in uniform. Now, she’d be just another girl tagging along after her parents. Dancing with one’s father at her age was embarrassing.

  “And I’ve been assigned a seat on the first official train across the span on the 28th,” Brock crowed. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

  Clearly more important than escorting me to the ball.

  Samantha couldn’t settle on why she found the notion irritating. The police “do” wasn’t really a ball in the true sense of the word, more like a barn dance. Too parochial for the likes of Brock. The train would be full of dignitaries—influential people. Just the sort he should mix with.

  However, not for the first time, she had a sinking feeling she’d been too much in love with the idea of being married to a man with prospects, and not with the man himself.

  Chapter Five

  Full Moon

  Leaving his uncle snoring in the gloomy parlor, Parker collected his belongings from the butler.

  His rooms were a good mile distant, but his leg was stiff with sitting, so he declined Kerr’s offer to summon a hansom. “The walk will do me good,” he said.

  “Bundle up then, sir,” the butler replied. “It’s chilly.”

  “I will,” Parker replied, wedging the bowler on his head before buttoning his heavy winter coat. He knotted the scarf around his neck and donned his leather gloves.

  “Happy Christmas, sir,” Kerr said, handing Parker his cane.

  “And to you,” he replied, bracing himself against the wind as he stepped out into the night.

  He pulled the scarf up to cover his ears, chuckling at the realization he and his uncle had spent most of the afternoon and evening together yet hadn’t exchanged the usual season’s greetings.

  After ten minutes walking faster than usual, his leg ached like the devil. He halted, leaned on his cane and looked to the distant river. The moon hung like a gigantic ball over the gaunt iron skeleton of the new bridge. Some might say it was blood red—not a good omen—but he couldn’t put his finger on the exact color. “Incandescent,” he murmured, his breath lingering in the frigid air.

  The trees around him seemed to bask in the moon’s glow, their leaves rustling their response to her secret whisperings.

  A shooting star caught his attention. It was traditional to make a wish, but such nonsense was for children. “I wish for a woman who will love me,” he breathed, feeling like a child who didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.

  The only reply was the whine of the wind howling out of the Bristol Channel.

  Despite the discomfort in his leg and the fact his toes and fingertips were going numb, he couldn’t seem to move on. Under the moon’s spell, he watched her rise higher and higher, unchallenged by any cloud. “She’s mistress of this moment,” he said aloud, surprising even himself.

  H
is only regret as he eventually forced himself to resume his walk was that he’d been alone. “Such wonders should be shared,” he mused, feeling pathetically lonely.

  He halted abruptly when a strange bank of fog blocked his path—impossible given the wind. An eerie feeling that he wasn’t alone stole up his spine. He brandished his cane. “Who’s there?”

  “You will find your heart’s desire,” a soft voice promised as the mist lifted. “From disaster will come triumph.”

  Shaking his head and feeling foolish, Parker resumed his walk. “No wine with dinner, and I’m still blotto,” he said. “Something in the plum pudding, maybe, as well as pounds of suet.”

  Darren cursed the full moon. The entire bridge was bathed in its eerie glow, just when Daffyd and Gwilym needed a cloudy night to carry out their mission.

  He didn’t envy them their task in the wind that seemed to be gaining strength. Daffyd’s prediction of a gale looked to be a possibility. “You wouldn’t catch me clambering along the iron struts to place the dynamite,” he said to himself. His role in life was to organize, plan, raise funds.

  He narrowed his eyes when a mist crept over the bridge. How that was possible in such a wind was beyond him. Something to do with the tides, he supposed. At least the fog obscured the bridge, lessening the chances someone might catch sight of the men laying the charges.

  He fingered the stiff cardboard in his pocket. An official ticket for a seat on the grandstand at the opening. What better alibi could he have if things went wrong?

  He dismissed the unpleasant possibility of failure. He’d planned meticulously. Nothing would go wrong. He couldn’t wait to see the faces of the dignitaries on the viewing platform when the bridge collapsed into the river.

  Chapter Six

  Boxing Day

  As in previous years, going back for as long as she could remember, Samantha’s father was up bright and early Boxing Day morning in time to catch the 7am train to Gloucester. “Can’t miss the first race,” he declared.

  “Those poor horses,” her tender-hearted mother fretted.

  “Don’t feel sorry for them, my dove,” he replied, cupping her face in his hands and plonking a kiss on her lips. “Thoroughbred nags are treated like royalty and they love to run.”

  “Go on with you,” her blushing mother admonished.

  Samantha supposed it was wishful thinking to hope she would enjoy a deep bond with her future husband like the one her parents shared. She and Grace were blessed to have such loving parents.

  “Good luck,” her sister added with a yawn.

  “Yes, Daddy,” Samantha said. “Place your bets wisely.”

  Her father frowned. “Now, you sound like Brock.”

  She stared at the door after he left, her stomach in knots. Was Brock’s dour nature already changing her outlook on life? Was it too late to break off the engagement? It would cause a scandal but…

  “Come along, girls,” her mother chivvied. “Breakfast first, then we’ll get started on parceling everything up. You know how Cook is. She’ll want to be off home with her box as soon as possible.”

  “I often wish I was a fly on the wall when her family opens the box,” Grace said. “I hope they like what we give them.”

  “Oh, yes,” her mother replied. “She’s always most appreciative. They don’t have much, you know, especially now her husband is out of work with the completion of the bridge.”

  Samantha took her place at the breakfast table, wondering what it must be like to be appreciative of cast-offs from one’s employer. The Hindleys weren’t rich, but her father’s job provided a comfortable living. She shuddered at the thought that might all come to an end with the opening of the new bridge. Few people would take her father’s ferry when they could cross the Severn in half the time by train.

  “I’m adding my red shoes to the pile for the box,” Grace declared, slicing the top off her boiled egg. “My feet must be growing they pinch so.”

  Samantha had never worn second-hand shoes. Marriage to Brock would ensure she never had to.

  Parker handed the box of items he no longer needed to the woman who came in twice a week to clean his suite of rooms and do his laundry. “There you are, Mrs. Beaton,” he said with a smile. “I’m grateful you take care of me so well.”

  The buxom little woman bobbed a curtsey as if in the presence of royalty. “Fanks ever so much, Mr. Cullen. You’re generous to a fault.”

  Her gratitude, he knew, was genuine, and it struck him, as it did every year, how easy it was to bring someone a little bit of happiness. He no longer needed the bits and bobs he’d put in this year’s box, but the widowed Mrs. Beaton had growing lads who would appreciate them. And the five quid he’d included would be well spent. “Off you go now,” he said. “There’s nothing to do today. I spent yesterday with my uncle, so…”

  “The bridge builder?” she asked, her wide eyes full of admiration.

  “Well, he doesn’t actually build the bridges, just designs them.”

  Her eyes darkened. “It’s a marvel, that bridge, but you wouldn’t catch me on it. Too long, and all that water underneath. I’ll stick to the ferry.”

  A lot of people probably held the same fears about the bridge. However, all his uncle’s previous feats of engineering had stood the test of time. There was no reason this one shouldn’t be the same. Folks would soon get over their apprehension and ride the train across.

  Darren locked the door of his room in what passed for a hotel in these parts, slipped the key into his waistcoat pocket and made his way to the dining room. He wasn’t looking forward to another plate of fried food swimming in grease. Only Englishmen would think it was a good idea to fry bread—and kidneys for God’s sake.

  Passing through the dingy lobby, he paused, wondering what was going on. The manager had the maids and valets lined up and was presenting each member of his staff with a small box.

  “What’s this?” he asked a guest he recognized as a fellow Yank from a previous conversation.

  “Boxing Day,” the man replied. “Servants get a boxed present from their employers.”

  Darren chuckled. “A quaint English custom, I guess. And here I was thinking there might be a boxing match to attend.”

  “No such luck,” his fellow countryman groused, “though they say there’s excitement to be had at the racetrack in Gloucester, and I sense you have a bit of an Irish brogue.”

  “You’re right and what Irishman can resist a day at the races? I might just be interested, if you’re going,” Darren said.

  He didn’t hear the reply, his attention suddenly taken by Daffyd lingering outside the hotel’s front door. “My apologies. I see my messenger has returned,” he said as calmly as he could. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the dining room?”

  He stalked though the door, grabbed Daffyd’s arm and steered him away from the hotel. “I told you never to come here,” he seethed.

  “You promised we’d be paid. Me and Gwilym froze our balls off laying them charges. You disappeared quickly after the other jobs.”

  Darren clenched his jaw. “When the bridge is in pieces at the bottom of the Severn, then you’ll be paid. Did you set the timers correctly?”

  “Of course,” Daffyd sneered. “All hell will break loose after the collapse. We need money now.”

  Darren acknowledged he wasn’t likely to get rid of the irritating Welshman unless he offered something. He fished in his pocket and pulled out two guineas. “Here, a down payment, if you will.”

  Daffyd grabbed the coins. “It’s a far cry from the hundred quid you promised.”

  Darren gritted his teeth. “I’ll find you and you’ll get it. Now, bugger off.”

  Breathing more easily when the scowling saboteur slunk away, he made his way to the dining room. A day at the races might be just what he needed to get his agitation under control.

  Chapter Seven

  Policeman’s Ball

  December 27th

  Samantha dutifully
trooped into the village hall behind her parents. Unlike her sister, who bubbled with excitement, she’d been reluctant to attend. The Aust Constabulary was small, though folks from miles around always attended the Annual Policeman’s Ball. It was one of the important social events in the region, a sort of wind-up to the Yuletide celebrations before people geared up for New Year’s Eve.

  The chief constable greeted them as usual. “Ah, Captain Hindley, Mrs. Hindley. It’s a pleasure to see you and your daughters. Happy Christmas and thank you for coming.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Samantha’s father replied.

  “I think you know your way to the refreshments,” their host said, already looking to the next people in line.

  “Indeed. Shall we?” her father asked his wife, offering his arm.

  Samantha and Grace trailed after them. “The chief constable doesn’t even remember our names,” Samantha complained to her sister.

  Her discomfort increased as her gaze roved over the other young women in the already crowded hall. Without exception, they wore the latest in fashionable gowns, whereas Samantha and her sister had been obliged to wear their old-fashioned hooped crinolines, altered to fit as they grew. With the impending loss of business for the ferry, they hadn’t wanted to insist on hard-earned money being spent on new frocks, but the snickering glances were hard to ignore.

  Their father located the table where they’d been assigned seats and left them to fetch punch from the refreshment table. A man was already seated at the same table, which was unusual; most of the men were standing around in groups, exchanging pleasantries. It was expected of them. Nor did their table-mate get to his feet when they arrived, which any true gentleman would have done.

  “Sergeant Cullen, Ma’am,” he said to their mother without a hint of a smile.