O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He felt the loss when she withdrew her hand and waved to the bridge. “No. He’s involved with the grand opening. In fact, he’ll be on the first train across.”

  Parker’s innards clenched. The feeling of impending disaster was back. “Have you told him?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t really decide until this morning. I will tell him when he gets back from Wales.”

  She’d made her decision this morning—Parker hoped meeting him last night had been a contributing factor.

  They stood together in silence as the side-wheels plowed their way across the river.

  “I direct your attention to the grandstand on your left,” Hindley announced through the loud-hailer. “As you see, the speeches are in progress.”

  From so far away, the people on the grandstand looked like miniatures, but Parker made out Judson’s bald head. “My uncle designed the bridge,” he said, pointing. “He’s the one with the bald head. He must have taken off his top hat in the wind.”

  She squinted into the spray. “It’s hard to see. I should have put two and two together and realized Judson Cullen was a relative of yours. You must be proud.”

  “I suppose I am,” he agreed, not willing to get into a conversation about his uncle’s lack of social graces. “He’s designed many famous bridges.”

  “I read that in The Times,” she replied.

  “I’m just hoping today’s opening goes off without a hitch,” he added, wishing he hadn’t when she turned to look him in the eyes. He might drown in those brown depths.

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  He tried to put the lid back on the can of worms he’d opened. “I’m a policeman. We have suspicious minds.”

  She didn’t look away. “But I can tell you’re worried.”

  “Not overly,” he lied.

  For Darren, the minutes before a grand plan came to fruition were the most nerve-wracking, though he freely admitted it was the part of his job he relished above all. Willing his right leg to stop its infernal dancing, he considered the people around him. Little did they know the power he alone held. Months of meticulous planning would soon result in the destruction of the magnificent structure they admired. It was a pity in many ways, but a well-designed engineering marvel couldn’t stand in the way of Ireland’s independence. He could hardly wait to claim responsibility on behalf of the Fenian Brotherhood. Anonymously, of course.

  He fidgeted with the top hat in his lap. The nigh-on gale force wind had forced the men to remove their headgear, but it was a blessing as far as Darren was concerned. People were already of the opinion the winds of the Bristol Channel would present a problem for the bridge. Two men had drowned after being blown off it during construction. The verdict of any inquiry would be that the wind had caused the bridge to collapse—if Daffyd and his cohort had done their jobs properly. Relying on others, especially Welshmen, was what Darren hated the most.

  He took out his timepiece as the speeches came to an end and the train whistle blew. Several men and women left the stage and the grandstand to make their way to the station platform.

  “Any time now, Daffyd,” Darren muttered. “Any time now.”

  He braced himself, preparing to appear as shocked as anyone when the structure collapsed. The minutes ticked by. He gripped his hat, swearing in Gaelic when the whistle blew again and the train slowly chuffed its way out of the station. A loud cheer and the jubilant notes of the local brass band heralded the engine’s approach onto the doomed bridge.

  “Ifreann agus damnú,” he swore between gritted teeth.

  Chapter Ten

  Disaster

  “We’ll slow down here,” Samantha’s father announced when the boat was midway across the channel. “You can watch the first train to cross the new Severn River Railway Bridge. An historic moment, to be sure, and one we’ll all remember for years to come.”

  Samantha shivered in the icy wind, grateful when Parker edged closer to shield her. His big body exuded warmth. A subtle hint of spicy cologne drifted to her nostrils. She took a deep breath, hoping her next words wouldn’t sound too forward. “I’m excited to share this moment with you,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”

  He put his hands on the railing on either side of her and opened his cloak to cover her shoulders, making her feel protected, safe. “So am I,” he replied.

  As the boat tossed, they watched the engine chug onto the bridge, its whistle sounding. Though they were far from the grandstand, they heard the cheering and the triumphant homage of the brass band.

  “Two carriages,” Parker observed, his breath tickling her ear.

  “Brock’s a junior barrister. He’s probably in the second one,” she replied, glad she wasn’t in one of the compartments now nearing the center of the bridge high above the river.

  “I’m happy you’re here with me,” he said huskily, “and not up there with him.”

  She tugged at the edges of his cloak, bringing him closer. She turned within the circle of his arms pinning her against the railing, awed by the longing in his gaze. “Me too.”

  “May I kiss you, Samantha?” he asked.

  Her mother would be scandalized if she allowed a man she barely knew to kiss her in such a public place. “Yes,” she whispered, parting her lips slightly.

  She realized as Parker’s mouth came down on hers that Brock had never kissed her on the lips. If he had, she was certain his kiss wouldn’t remotely resemble Parker’s gentle assault on her senses. Cocooned in his cloak, she reached to put her arms around his neck, pressing her body against him as his tongue coaxed open her lips.

  The historic event going on above them suddenly held no meaning. All that mattered was Parker’s tongue mating with hers, the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the strength in his arms holding her tightly.

  “Samantha,” he growled, resting his forehead against hers.

  Her name on his lips caused a wonderful ache to blossom in her most intimate place. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples tight.

  “I feel like the world just stood still,” she whispered. “Even the wind has dropped.”

  He raised his head, frowning as he looked up at the bridge.

  She felt the sudden tension radiating from him. “What is it?” she asked nervously.

  “Everyone, get away from the water,” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Next thing she knew, he’d clamped an arm around her waist and pulled her from the railing. She found herself lying on the deck shielded by his body.

  “What’s wrong?” she begged desperately as people eyed the lunatic yelling at them.

  He struggled to rise. “I must hurry to tell your father to steer away from the bridge with all possible haste.”

  “But…”

  She stared at him when a series of muffled thuds filled the silence. The brass band stopped playing. The cheering ceased. Dread knotted her innards when she saw the shock on Parker’s pale face as he struggled to his feet.

  She stood to see what had caused his anguish. Metal groaned and whined as the bridge swayed. The engine screeched to a halt and began to slowly chug backwards. She stood transfixed, gaping in disbelief as the bridge collapsed. The train broke apart like a child’s toy. Terror constricted her throat as tons of metal crashed into the river. The train disappeared in the wall of white water that exploded as the Severn swallowed everything.

  She blinked, certain she couldn’t possibly be witnessing such an unthinkable disaster. “Brock,” she choked, burying her head against Parker’s chest.

  Parker didn’t have time to worry about the fact Samantha had called out the name of a man he’d assumed she no longer loved. If Hindley didn’t get the ferry boat away from the disaster, they’d be swamped by a tidal wave.

  “Brace yourselves,” a frantic voice yelled over the loud-hailer.

  People screamed or moaned. Some held on to each other as the ferry veered sharply, others were tossed to the deck. The side-wheels churned up foam, timbers wailed in pr
otest, but eventually the boat headed back towards her dock beneath the cliffs, safe from the wave rushing upriver.

  Trembling with fury, cursing the deep ache in his leg, Parker leaned back against the railing around the tall funnel, his arms clamped around Samantha. “Your father just saved our lives,” he rasped.

  Whimpering, she clung to him, clearly in shock.

  Samantha’s white-faced mother and sister staggered towards them. He opened his arms to gather them in, relieved they’d survived unscathed. But none of them would be able to wipe away the memory of the horrific catastrophe they’d witnessed. He still could hardly believe what he’d seen.

  “Everyone said the bridge would collapse in the wind,” Mrs. Hindley murmured.

  Parker shook his head. “Did you not hear the explosions that weakened the structure?”

  He swallowed hard when Samantha raised her tear-stained face to look at him. “You’re just saying that to defend your uncle,” she accused.

  He clenched his jaw at her hurtful words. “This evil was the work of human hands,” he insisted, convinced he knew just who was behind the diabolical deed.

  “Hell and damnation,” Darren swore again as he joined the stampede desperately fleeing the swaying grandstand. He kicked aside an abandoned hat, furious he hadn’t paid heed to his misgivings about the stupid Welshmen.

  Now, there was no possibility of the Brotherhood claiming responsibility. Destruction of property was intimidating and designed to make people think perhaps the Irish were serious about their struggle for independence. A terrifying mass murder would harden hearts and result in an intense investigation by the police. He had nothing to worry about as far as the local coppers were concerned. He doubted Aust even had a police force. But if detectives came from Scotland Yard…

  He jammed his top hat back on his head, elbowing weeping women and spluttering men out of his way. The sooner he got back to New York, the better, though his ship didn’t sail for another three weeks—more than enough time to get rid of his incompetent henchmen. They were so hungry for the money, they’d seek him out quickly enough.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aftermath

  Shaking uncontrollably, Samantha stayed cocooned in the security of Parker’s cloak until the ferry docked in Aust. Despite her father’s exhortations for the passengers not to swarm the gangway, the boat tipped alarmingly. Parker and the Hindleys remained on board as the crew ushered everyone off. Samantha heard feet shuffle, then sighs of relief and muted sobbing when people found themselves safely ashore. No one spoke. She was sure everyone had been struck dumb, as she had.

  Except, she’d uttered hurtful words to the man who’d protected her with his own body. She gathered her courage and looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, grateful her voice still worked. “I don’t know why…”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Hush. We’re all in shock, but you actually knew someone aboard the train. It’s natural to want to blame somebody.”

  Resisting the compulsion to suck his finger into her mouth, she blinked back tears. “I can’t imagine the terror…”

  He tightened his hold on her as she wept. “I promise to do everything in my power to bring the murderers to justice.”

  Guilt surged in Samantha’s heart. Brock had died a gruesome death and all she could think of was filling her nostrils with the reassuring male scent of a man she barely knew.

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell him,” she wailed.

  “It’s not your fault, Samantha.”

  “But who would do such a diabolical thing?” she asked.

  “I have a hunch.”

  A memory surfaced from the maelstrom of hideous images—Parker yelling, dragging her away from danger. “You knew. Even before it happened, you knew.”

  Obviously, Parker couldn’t tell Samantha a mysterious voice in a fog bank had warned of disaster and promised he would find his heart’s desire. Nor was it the time to tell her he had a kind of sixth sense about criminal intent. “I suppose my uncle’s nervousness rubbed off on me,” he lied, suddenly worried about Judson’s safety. If people thought his design of the bridge was to blame…

  He put his hands on Samantha’s shoulders and held her away. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said, “but all hell has probably broken loose at the station. I need to discuss my hunch with the chief constable.”

  A meeting he didn’t look forward to. The man tended to be obtuse about the simplest things.

  “You should make sure your uncle is all right,” she said. “He must be devastated. He wasn’t on the train, was he?”

  Parker’s gut tightened. He had assumed his uncle wasn’t going to ride the train, but… “Forgive me,” he said, pecking a kiss on her forehead. “I have to go.”

  “Will I see you again?” she said as he turned to leave.

  “You can count on it,” he replied with a smile. “Though I can’t promise when.”

  He hurried away as quickly as his protesting leg allowed, filled with a sense of urgent purpose. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t think of himself as a cripple. Samantha’s easy acceptance of him just the way he was had brushed that chip off his shoulder.

  Hailing a hansom proved to be impossible. He was close to frenzied exhaustion by the time he limped into the police station after a twenty-minute walk through streets filled with crowds of angry people. Every minute lost was a chance for the Irishman to escape.

  Chief Constable Moore greeted him sternly. “Sergeant. A word.”

  The hope his superior would invite him to sit once they gained his tiny office was a forlorn one. More red in the face than usual and sweating profusely, Moore slammed the door and announced, “Your uncle has been arrested.”

  Seething inwardly, Parker raked fingers through his hair, attempting to bring order. Halfway to the station, he’d realized his bowler had been lost somewhere along the line. It was important he appear unruffled and in control when he told of his suspicions. “This was no accident, sir. I heard explosions just before the bridge collapsed.”

  His superior raised a bushy eyebrow. “You were there?”

  “On the ferry, sir. Below the bridge.”

  “No one else has said anything about explosions.”

  “I know what I heard, sir. This was sabotage.”

  “You’re suggesting mass murder? Who would plot such a foul deed?”

  “Who blew up the cloakrooms at Victoria Station and the wall of Clerkenwell Prison, sir?”

  “Well,” the man blustered, “they claim it was the Fenians, but nothing was ever proven.”

  Parker realized he was treading on shifting sands. Like him, Moore was of Irish descent. “The dynamite used in London came from America.”

  “What does that have to do with today’s catastrophe?”

  “There’s an Irish-American in town. I met him today.” He deemed it wiser not to mention the man’s evil aura.

  “We can’t go around accusing tourists of crimes without proof,” Moore blustered. “I understand your reluctance to lay the blame at your uncle’s feet, but his penny-pinching ways are well known. He may have skimped on materials for the bridge. The general opinion is the wind brought down the structure.”

  “You cannot condemn a man just because public opinion assumes he is guilty.”

  Moore’s handlebar mustache quivered. “Of course not. This isn’t the Wild West of America. There’ll be a thorough investigation. I’ve already telegraphed Scotland Yard. In the meantime, Judson Cullen is probably safer in our cells.”

  Parker couldn’t argue with that. “With your permission, sir…”

  Moore held up a pudgy hand. “You’re to stay here and answer the telephone if it rings. You seem to be the only man in the station comfortable with Mr. Bell’s invention. Personally…”

  Leaning heavily on his cane, willing away the throbbing ache in his thigh muscle, Parker gritted his teeth while Moore droned on about the advantages of the telegraph over the tele
phone. By the time detectives arrived from London, the Irishman would be long gone, especially since it was Christmas and Scotland Yard’s mucky-mucks were probably on holiday. Meanwhile, he was supposed to twiddle his thumbs waiting for the telephone to ring, which normally happened once a week at most.

  The lilt of Irish brogues and the typical uproar as men tried to outshout each other with opinions about the disaster calmed Darren. He took a long draft of his ale, comforted that Irishmen all over the world were much the same. In this quaint Irish pub just outside a Gloucestershire village, he was safe among his own kind—strong, opinionated people, ready to fight for what they thought was right despite the injustices perpetrated on them for generations.

  The loud group of men seemed to fall into two camps. One lot shouted the engineer and the wind were to blame. Their naysayers had heard rumors of explosions.

  Talk eventually turned to who might be responsible for sabotage if such were proven to be the case. A strange silence fell until one man piped up, “Jaysus, I hope ’twasna the Brotherhood. Blowing up bridges is one ting, but the train…all those people. Seamus told me the engine driver was a fella from Belfast.”

  When every soul in the place made the sign of the cross, murmuring, “God rest his soul”, Darren’s fears were confirmed. Months of planning down the drain. The Brotherhood would be foolish to claim responsibility.

  He scanned the smoke-filled room, easing off his stool when he espied two rough-looking fellows he’d noticed the day before. Sullen-faced, they sat apart, taking no interest in the arguments. Outcasts. Unless Darren missed his guess, they were just the sort of thugs he needed to deal with Daffyd and his comrade.

  “Gentlemen,” he gushed. “Can I buy you gents a drink?”