O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Yes, my lady.” He closed the parlor door behind him.

  Agatha set her teacup down and stared at the closed door. Bentley never falters in his work. He has to be the best hire my husband ever made, she mused. And yet, something about him nags at me. It is as if I have met him before. But when?

  Charles Bentley rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. He would never completely understand this woman. Worse, his own feelings toward her perplexed him. Approaching forty, she was an attractive woman. At least, he thought so. When she smiled—admittedly a rarity of late—he found himself transported to memories of that ball so long ago.

  Lately, for reasons he failed to understand, she refused to update her wardrobe like the other women he saw in town, preferring to wear the dresses she had before the earl died, which had been over five years ago.

  Mrs. Spencer, the village’s new modiste, had visited and invited her to see her newest fabrics and fashion plates, offering to bring all the dresses to the home for fittings.

  Yet, she only allowed the seamstress to update her existing wardrobe and turned down all pleas to update her wardrobe without even a kind word.

  Her niece’s marriage had set her temper on edge. Her ladyship would be this way until she worked it out of her system. He wished he could distract her, but there would be nothing for it. Her mood would run his course. He only hoped no one would leave because of it.

  Charles constantly had to hire new people as Lady Agatha Wendt could not keep them, particularly women, in her employ. He had hired a housekeeper, a maid, and a lady’s maid just this week. Thank goodness the footmen seemed to stay, and he felt fortunate that she had agreed to promote one to under butler. It gave him the chance to take care of the extra duties she constantly required. This afternoon she had ordered all the silver be counted—as she had every Christmas season since the earl’s death, and she required that he do it alone. His best hope was that she did not lose more staff.

  The estate was reputed to be quite rolled up; however, since she now controlled the purse-strings, she gave the impression of being quite purse-pinched. He shook his head in bafflement. More upsetting was the way she treated the female staff.

  How was it he saw a different side of her? Most of the staff—old and new—feared and hated her.

  Still, she could be generous when she wished. Her cat was a fine case in point, he thought to himself. The footman, Harris, had told him it had been laying on the side of the road, starving and badly injured when she demanded they stop the carriage. Her ladyship had stepped out of the conveyance and picked the half-frozen animal up herself. She had brought it back into the carriage and wrapped it in her fur and velvet pelisse, ignoring her own comfort. It was clear that she cared, he thought, smiling to himself. That had been a month ago, and the cat still clung to her like a shadow. Her ladyship treated Pretty like a child. Charles smiled to himself. He could think of dozens of examples like this over the years—things perhaps only he noticed.

  Mr. Hanson had waited in the anteroom just off the front. Charles knew him by sight. The poor man appeared at their door collecting for the orphanage every year. Sometimes he asked for things like old clothes, garments that could be repurposed for the children. Their biggest need was money.

  Charles had known what her ladyship’s answer would be—a firm no, wrapped in mumbled justifications on why she detested “beggars.” The man was not a beggar. He worked with the orphanage and without enough benefactors, they were frequently reduced to asking for sustenance to keep the doors open. The oddity was that Lady Wendt’s husband had been a benefactor, so it was no wonder that the man persisted in returning every year, despite her attitude. Only Mr. Hanson did not know her attitude.

  The butler pivoted toward his small office behind the kitchen area. He walked into the small room and opened the drawer to the small corner desk and pulled out a box from the bottom drawer. Extracting half of the contents, he placed it in a small velvet pouch and pocketed it, replacing the rest in the box and securing it once again in the bottom drawer. The headmaster would not leave empty-handed this Christmastide.

  On his way to the anteroom, his hand squeezed the velvet bag. Ten pounds was a lot to part with, but this was a good cause. He handed the man the coins he had taken from his savings.

  “Sir, her ladyship has already retired for the evening,” he said, not missing the look of frustration which escaped Mr. Hanson. “However, having expected your visit, she left word that this be given to you,” Charles said, tucking the money into the man’s hands.

  “Thank you, kind sir. Please thank Lady Wendt for her generosity,” the man replied, pocketing the money.

  Charles nodded. “I bid you a good evening,” he said, walking the man back to the front door. Lady Wendt would anger if she discovered he had donated money every year in her name, as she made it clear she did not encourage begging. In his mind, this was charitable work, not begging. The children needed food and a toy for Christmas. He hoped the ten pounds would provide ample funds. He had been lucky to not have unexpected expenses this year. I can never resist the children’s causes. Mayhap, it is because at one time, I was one of them. He never regretted the use of his money.

  Three days hence would be Christmas Day, but Lady Wendt rarely acknowledged the holiday anymore. What had changed her attitude towards the feast?

  Chapter Two

  Agatha heard talking and opened the door to the hallway in time to hear the beggar thank Bentley, and her butler wish the man a good evening before the front door closed behind him.

  “Shameful that they come to your door to ask for funds. I wonder why it took Bentley so long to dispose of him,” she complained out loud. Why was he thanking Bentley? He had turned him away. Curious, she pulled the cord.

  At the sound of her voice, the cat opted for a warmer perch and left its spot on the floor for her lap. “Pretty, keep me company,” she crooned as she scratched the cat behind the ears, eliciting soft purrs from the animal. As she continued to cuddle the cat, she felt a slight movement in its stomach and sat back in alarm. “How odd,” she mumbled, gently probing the area. Feeling movement again, she held the kitty up to her neck and rocked her. “You wonderful dear! You are going to be a mama cat and we shall have kittens!” Agatha’s voice took on a joyous tone. “It was a good thing that we happened upon you, my sweet kitty.”

  Agatha had never had a child. It was one of the many things that was his fault, she lamented to herself. Her departed husband, Ambrose, had blamed her for their inability to produce a child, ignoring the fact that his first wife had died childless. She had hoped that at least once, she would know motherhood. Her parents had forced the unhappy union, and as far as she was concerned, they were to blame. Her brother had chosen his own wife, something she had always resented—and for no other reason, she detested her sister-in-law. Despite her brother being dead, she felt justified in her resentment and waved her hand dismissively in the air. “My brother should have insisted Father not cast me off to Ambrose. The man was already old,” she sniffed. Agatha had been relegated to loneliness until she found Pretty, and the thought that there would be kittens thrilled her.

  A small tap on the door preceded Bentley’s entrance. “My lady.” The man stopped short when he saw her examining the cat. “Is there something wrong with Pretty, my lady?” he coughed.

  “Our Pretty-girl is about to become a mother cat!” she said excitedly. For the first time in forever, Agatha felt needed. “Oh. I heard that beggar-man in the hallway. I hope that he did not give you a hard time. I do not intend to put my own coffers at risk for the benefit of filling his, and I hope he took his leave for good this time,” she huffed, petting her cat.

  “Yes, my lady. I believe that he understands your position. I do not believe Mr. Hanson will return,” he replied in earnest.

  “Bentley, could you call Doctor Bells for me?” she said, smiling.

  “Are you unwell, my lady?”

  “Of course not!” she blustered
. “I need him to check on Pretty, here.”

  “My lady, I sent word for the doctor to attend Mrs. Winters. She went into labor earlier today, and I am told she is not faring very well. The midwife sent word that the doctor should come,” he returned, his voice guarded.

  “This is important. I do not want Pretty to lose one of her kittens,” she responded pettishly, and then stopped. She studied the floor a moment before looking up at Charles. “I apologize. That was wrong of me. Of course, Mrs. Winters needs the doctor. Please forgive my pique.” Agatha scrutinized her cat, still concerned. She recalled a young man that had saved one of her calves in a breach birth. “Yes, yes,” she acknowledged out loud. “He will do nicely. Please send for Mr. Pennington. He has helped here before.”

  “Certainly, my lady. I agree. He has decent skills with animals.” Charles said, visibly relieved. “I will send a footman for him at once.”

  “Thank you. Have him visit in the morning,” she said, distractedly. “Pretty seems fatigued. I think I too will retire for the evening. Have Cook send my meal up, with a bowl of warm milk for Pretty. She needs to keep up her strength.”

  Agatha moved to stand, when she became overset with a bout of dizziness, causing her to sway. “Suddenly, I feel quite odd.”

  Bentley caught her. “Are you feeling right, my lady?”

  Startled by the ripples of heat that coursed up the arm where he touched her, Agatha could only nod. When he moved his arm around her to steady her, similar waves of heat surged across her back from his contact. Agatha felt unsure what to make of the sensation.

  “I think I may need assistance up the stairs. I…perhaps it is a megrim,” she stammered.

  “Upon my word! Let me assist you upstairs, my lady.” Charles moved her towards the stairs and they began their ascent. “This is not the first time this has happened, my lady. I feel certain that the doctor should check on you.”

  “Unfortunately, you are correct. Perhaps it is the weather.” Moments passed as they slowly climbed the stairs in silence.

  “I will have Mrs. Stone give you a restorative while I send for Doctor Bells. Surely he will have delivered the child by now.”

  “Please have a footman bring Pretty up,” she said with a strained voice. “I had intended to carry her; however, should I drop her, it could harm the babies.” She briefly wondered how many there would be. Oh Hell! This feels like the same headache I nurse at this time every year. She pressed both hands to her forehead.

  Twenty minutes later, she had settled beneath the covers. Mrs. Stone, the new housekeeper, had given her a restorative to settle her nerves while they waited for the doctor’s visit. Her eyes felt tired. Bentley had been most insistent that the doctor see me. How unusual. Perhaps the doctor can peek at Pretty while he is here. Bentley’s attentiveness had caught her notice over the years, but she had not given it much thought, crediting it to his thorough nature. I am sure that is what it was, she thought as her eyes grew heavy.

  As she closed her eyes, the sound of bells ringing started softly and grew louder. There was a sense of familiarity, but she could not recall when precisely she had heard them. The scent of cherries and tobacco intruded. Where had she smelled that? Struggling, she tried to open her eyes, but found she could not. She began to accept her limitations. Soon a white mist shrouded her shuttered sight, and a black form rose out of it. Unable to open her eyes, she was drawn to the blurry, dark figure rising slowly from the gray, soupy mist.

  This has to be a dream. However, I feel awake. How can that be? Agatha felt the urge to bolt but found herself transfixed. The figure became less blurry, and she startled to see a likeness of her dead brother, Thomas, Lord Romney. An icy feeling of foreboding cloaked her. She had not called on his family when he had died. Was he coming back to chastise her? Had she not sent a missive with her condolences when he died? Her brother’s inaction when Father forced a betrothal to Ambrose still pained her, she reasoned. What was he doing here in her dream?

  “Agatha…” his voice intoned as he motioned for her to follow.

  “What now, Thomas? You are always asking favors of me. Yet you do nothing to help me,” she snapped.

  “Still carrying around that yoke of anger, sister?” he asked, his tone serious. “I would have thought age and wisdom would have befriended you. Ambrose left you a wealthy widow. You have more money than most, yet you are more selfish than most.”

  “Nonsense!” she bristled. “I have to watch every farthing. You inherited Father’s wealth, and you had your family to help you. I have…” Her voice trailed off.

  “You have a family, too,” he thundered. “You have chosen to not be part of it.”

  “Is that what you think? Your daughter married and the chit never even invited me,” she crowed.

  His brow furrowed at her remark. “We digress, Agatha, and we have much to cover. I must show you…things. Follow me,” he said cryptically, then turned and walked through a doorway into a dark hall. Unable to stop herself, she followed. The hall ended in a room illuminated by candelabras. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw herself during her first Season sitting along the wall with other young women. During the time that followed, several handsome young men were introduced and asked for a dance. Each time, she declined their invitations until one. He was a handsome blond wearing regimentals, and as she watched, he seemed absurdly familiar. She tried to think of their names. Frustrated, she looked up at her brother. “Why have you brought me here, Thomas? Am I supposed to read your mind?” she snapped.

  “Agatha, you blame me for your marriage, yet you had choices. I could show an identical scene to you from each dance in your three Seasons, and it would only prove my point. But time is important and we must keep moving,” he spoke without inflection.

  “I cannot see what this proves. I remember dancing…” she returned.

  “With me, sister. Your dances were only with me and my friends,” he bit off.

  “All right! I was frightened. You must have known that,” she retorted.

  “We have time to see this through a little longer. Pay attention,” he said, pointing back to her dream.

  Once again, they returned to the night of her first ball. The young man in regimentals was escorting her back to her chair.

  “May I place my name down for another dance, Lady Agatha?” he asked as she lightly held his arm and moved toward her chair.

  “No, no, thank you. My feet are already tired,” she heard herself answer.

  “Agatha, he really seems interested in you. Perhaps you should dance with him. He is quite handsome,” a lovely, blonde young woman sitting next to her suggested, as he walked away.

  Agatha recognized Miss Alice Langdale, the young woman who would become her sister-in-law.

  “You are right. However, Mother says he is shopping for a well-dowered bride. He is the second son of a baron and has no title. Mother says he will have nothing. I am hoping for more,” Agatha countered.

  “What would a dance hurt?” Miss Langdale persisted. “You might enjoy his company.”

  Agatha snorted. “I will need more in life than company,” she replied tersely. “One never knows where life takes you.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Miss Langdale.

  A younger Thomas walked up and acknowledged his sister before turning to Miss Langdale and asking her to dance. Agatha gave an expression of disdain as they walked away. “I see you set your sights on my brother, an earl. And you are trying to push me to a nobody,” she whispered loudly to no one in particular.

  “Despite any sensible entreaties, you refused to allow others to court you. That baron’s second son attempted to court you several times, but you sent him away.”

  “I sent no one away,” she retorted, flummoxed that he should have known about him. “Thomas, I did not send a suitor away.” He had seemed kind, but her mother had been adamant that she look higher.

  He looked at his sister. “Perhaps it was Mother. She should not have done that,”
he declared. “However, after three Seasons, Father accepted Lord Wendt’s offer. I could offer no defense to stop it, as I had seen little effort on your part in three years to find a husband,” he said on a sigh. “It was not like you to not complain. Why did you stay silent when she was pushing you so?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

  “You should have…” she protested.

  “What? What should I have done? You resented anything having to do with me—even my family. We have spent enough time on this, dearest sister. We must move on,” Thomas countered in a tone of disgust.

  A draft of wind blew out the light and the darkness and white mist returned.

  “Look carefully,” her brother pointed, as the mist cleared.

  A poorly lit room with beds lining the walls, full of children of various ages – many in tattered or too small night clothing – emerged. “’Tis naught but a bunch of children,” she moaned. “They appear to be poor. Is this an orphanage?”

  “Watch and learn,” he prodded.

  She focused on the little boy that was being held by a woman. He could not have been more than a year in age. The toddler wailed, clearly distressed. A man entered and Agatha recognized him as Mr. Hanson, the man that had visited that very evening. “Why am I watching a beggar?”

  “Shhh! Listen for once,” Thomas pointed her attention back to the scene.

  “Husband, he is refusing to eat,” the lady said.

  “My dear, he is most likely in shock. His parents died of influenza and there is no family for Henry. He would benefit from an adoption.”

  “Yes, you are most likely right. However, who would have the money? People can barely feed themselves these days. It being the festive season and all. Little Henry will have to adjust to being part of the group. ’Tis just so sad.”

  “You speak the truth. Donations have been down this year. I have been to everyone who has given in past years, and nothing—not because they don’t want to. ’Tis because things are too tight. I don’t believe we could afford to feed these children tonight, had we not gotten the generous Wendt donation.”