O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I’ll show you,” he’d muttered furiously, as he’d saddled Constable and ridden off to pursue his bohemian dreams. “I’ll show all of you!”

  He’d shown them, all right. Here he was, almost five years later, fettered to poverty by a chain forged from bad choices. His time had been squandered, as had his money. It had been fun for a while. Gambling, whoring, nights spent in the euphoric grip of opium. There had even been some sober moments where he’d managed to dab paint onto paper and earn a few francs. Eventually, however, it had all gone, including his horse. Josiah’s bohemian dream had become as threadbare as his clothes. He’d been a fool.

  Yet, despite seeing the error of his ways, he couldn’t summon up the courage to go home. He could admit failure to himself, but not to his mother or his siblings. And especially not to his father. That was assuming, of course, his father would even let him back in the house.

  No. The chasm between him and his family had grown too wide for any bridges to be built. And Christmas, more than any other time of year, reminded him of that.

  A sudden, overwhelming sense of despair bore down on him, and tears blurred his vision as he regarded the painting once more. It illustrated his life somehow. A failed attempt to capture an ideal. A mess of faulty outlines and clumsy brushstrokes. Something flawed and utterly worthless. He leaned over the stone wall of the bridge and dangled the painting over the water.

  He let it drop.

  The wind grabbed it and sent it skimming into the river, right side up. It floated for a moment, bobbing like a little raft. Then, as if the river suddenly noticed it had been offered a sacrifice, it snatched the painting from sight and pulled it into the depths. Josiah continued to stare at the spot and wondered how cold the water was.

  “It’s frigid,” a voice said, “so I trust you’re not thinking of following your artwork. Once you’re in there, you’ll have no chance to change your mind. If the cold doesn’t kill you, the pollution will.”

  Startled, Josiah turned to see a man standing beside him. He cast a swift glance about, wondering where the fellow had come from, since he hadn’t noticed anyone nearby. The man stood as tall as Josiah, with aged, but well-defined features. A shock of white hair, curling over his ears, stood in stark contrast against his black top hat. The rest of his dark attire suggested wealth, though his style seemed a little dated. Currently, his gloved hands were braced against the wall of the bridge as he stared at the spot where the painting had disappeared.

  Josiah didn’t respond. Firstly, because the man had addressed him in English, which irritated him. This was Paris, after all. Not London. And secondly, because the man’s remark had been oddly pertinent, and had taken Josiah aback.

  “It would be a pity, I must say,” the gentleman went on, still speaking English. “You obviously have talent. I thought the painting was rather good.”

  “What would you know of it?” Josiah asked him in French, curiosity stirring about this enigmatic visitor. “Are you an expert on art?”

  “I’m not sure there is such a thing,” came the answer, still in English. “One’s opinion of art is, after all, subjective. I simply know what I like. You obviously have an aptitude for language as well, since I hear no trace of your English accent at all. What was wrong with the painting, in your opinion?”

  Who…? The hair on Josiah’s nape lifted. He dropped into English. “Do I know you?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Then how did you know I was English?”

  “Just a guess. Answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “What was wrong with the painting?”

  Josiah blinked. Who was this strange fellow? And where had he come from? He looked about again, seeing no one nearby. Not a single, solitary soul in fact, which in itself was quite peculiar. Despite the cold, he’d expect to see someone. Paris never stopped. Never slept. Was he dreaming? Hallucinating, maybe?

  Maybe the cold had got to him.

  “Well? Tell me, young sir. Why did you throw it in the river? What was wrong with it?”

  Josiah opened his mouth, intending, at first, to tell this obtrusive person to mind his own damn business. But the man’s voice held a genuine hint of interest. Concern, even. It touched something vulnerable, deep inside.

  “Everything was wrong with it,” Josiah replied, clenching his fists. “The way the light reflected on the water. The movement. The contrast. I see it clearly in my head, but I’m never able to recreate it in my paintings.”

  The gentleman lifted his chin a smidgen, and regarded Josiah. “I suspect you’ve been here too long, my boy,” he said. “It’s probably time you went home.”

  Josiah suppressed another shiver. “Thank you for your concern, and yes, I probably should.” In truth, he knew his small garret room wouldn’t be much warmer, but at least he’d be out of this blasted wind. “It’s bitter cold out here tonight.”

  “I meant home to Highfield Hall,” the man said. “Swallow that damnable pride of yours, will you, Joe? There’s no shame in admitting you’ve made a mistake.”

  Josiah shook his head, certain he must have misheard. “How do you…?” He rubbed at his temple. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” the man replied. “Why I’m here, does. And I’m here to help you see sense. This valiant attempt at your bohemian dream has gone on long enough.”

  “Did my father send you?” Josiah’s heart sped up. He’d long held a secret fantasy that his father might hire someone to find him. Someone who would tell him how much he’d been missed, and insist on bringing him home.

  “No, he didn’t. Your father has no idea where you are.”

  So much for that. Josiah’s little bubble of hope popped. “Then how do you know about Highfield?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “What the bloody hell does that mean? And how do you know my name?”

  “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “That is not an acceptable answer, sir.” What was left of Josiah’s pride lifted its defenses. “I don’t know who you are or what this is about, but I think you need to mind your own damn business. It doesn’t matter what you or anyone else does or says, I’ll never go back to Highfield.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” He shot a brief glance at the rose window. “Because I vowed never to set foot in that place again, and I meant it. My father and I didn’t see eye-to-eye and I left on bad terms. I’m certain I would not be welcome.”

  “Hmm.” The man frowned. “I’d like the chance to change your mind about that.”

  “You’d be wasting your time,” Josiah retorted. Yet, even as he spoke the words, a tiny spark of interest, somewhere deep inside, flared to life. What was this man’s interest? What was his motive?

  “Will you at least let me try?”

  “And what, precisely, would that entail?” Josiah demanded. “Let me guess. A boring lecture about how a son should honor and obey his father. And probably a sermon delivering guilt by the bucket load. Am I right? Thank you, but no.”

  “It would be neither of those things,” the man replied. “I just need one night in your company. That’s all.”

  “One night in my…?” Josiah’s eyes widened. Then he laughed over a sudden, sickening understanding. “Oh, so that’s what this is. Christ. Do you really think I’m that vulnerable? That bloody hard up? I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I’m afraid you’ve been completely misled. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you either have the wrong idea or the wrong information.”

  “And you have a habit of misunderstanding people.” The man heaved a sigh. “I suggest you think about what I’ve said.”

  Josiah returned the smile, though his held no warmth. “I don’t need to think about it, I can assure you.”

  “I’ll be here tomorrow. Same time.”

  “Whereas I won’t be.”

  The man touched the brim of his hat. “For
your sake, young sir, I hope you will be.”

  “I—” Josiah had intended to fire off another retort, but was startled by a sudden burst of laughter behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see a couple, arm-in-arm, heads bent against the wind, heading his way. Then he turned his attention back to his strange companion. “I have no—”

  The nearby gaslight illuminated the empty cobbles. A page from a discarded newspaper, snatched by the wind, hurtled by. A few errant snowflakes from a passing cloud whirled around like tiny feathers. But there was no sign of the strange man. Other than the couple, still strolling along arm-in-arm, there was no sign of anyone. Josiah pressed a hand to his forehead. “Where the hell…?”

  How could the stranger have disappeared so quickly? He couldn’t have. Not unless he had wings on his feet, or had leapt into the river. Josiah leaned over the wall, half-expecting to see someone hanging from the bridge. Or floundering in the water. He saw neither.

  Confused to the point of dizziness, he attempted to arrange his thoughts. Had he imagined the entire encounter? Was he ailing? True, he’d had a headache earlier that day. But he didn’t really feel ill. He just felt very cold. And crushingly tired, all of a sudden.

  Hopeless.

  The word slid into his brain unbidden.

  Maybe that was it. He closed his eyes against a prickle of tears and tried to slow his breathing. Maybe his brain had conjured up the stranger, trying to compensate, somehow, for his dejected state. It sounded ridiculous. But what other explanation could there be? He couldn’t blame alcohol. He’d not had any in days. And he hadn’t dallied with opium for weeks.

  Trying to make sense of all that had occurred, he barely remembered the walk back to his garret. By the time he got there, he’d managed to convince himself that the entire episode had been some kind of hallucination. Moreover, it had been brought about by his melancholic mood and the freezing temperatures. Even now, with his front door in sight, his hands and feet were so cold he could barely feel them. It didn’t help, either, that he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in several days. The choice often had to be made between rent and food, not to mention his art supplies. This month, rent had taken priority. Maybe he should have kept the painting after all. He might have got a few francs for it.

  He stumbled over the threshold into the cold, windowless foyer of his run-down apartment building, his teeth chattering so hard they shook his skull. The exertion of climbing four flights of stairs in pitch darkness warmed him up a little. With benumbed fingers, he retrieved the key from his pocket and let himself into the garret that had been his home for the past year.

  Compared to the total darkness of the staircase, the poky apartment offered a measure of light, due to the little circular dormer-window set into the slope of the slate roof. He couldn’t look down on the street but, on clear nights, he could lay in bed and look at the stars. Lately, though, his nighttime view of infinity served only to remind him of his solitude.

  During the day, what little daylight there was reflected off a large ornately-framed mirror, which had been purposely placed for that intent. It brightened the gloomy space and gave Josiah some extra light to paint by.

  Tonight, the temperature within the room was almost as bitter as without. He kicked off his shoes and crawled under his blankets fully dressed, the mattress sagging as he curled into a ball, shivering uncontrollably. His headache had returned, the persistent throb made worse by the ongoing turmoil in his mind.

  The encounter on the bridge had greatly unsettled him, solely because he could make no sense of it, and it frightened him. Could it really have been a hallucination? If so, did it mean he was losing his mind?

  And had he actually, even for a moment, contemplated ending his life?

  “Northcott men never give up,” he whispered. “Isn’t that right, Papa? Isn’t that right?”

  A lump came to his throat as he stared at the silhouette of his easel, which stood beneath the window. Tomorrow, he resolved, he’d wander up to Montmartre, find a likely spot, and paint a quick, mediocre daylight scene. Maybe he’d make a few francs. Assuming the weather cooperated, of course.

  No sooner had that thought slid through his mind than the wind rattled his window, as if mocking him. He blew out a breath, watching it cloud and then fade away like a little ghost. Then he blew out another.

  And something suddenly occurred to him.

  Not once, he realized, had the stranger’s breath clouded in the cold air. Not once. Which seemed to confirm his suspicions: the man simply hadn’t been real. The entire encounter had been a fabrication of the mind. “The cold,” he murmured, pulling the blankets tighter around him. “It had to have been the cold. That’s all.” As warmth gradually seeped back into his bones, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  When next he opened his eyes, it was to the sound of a growling stomach, the sight of leafy patterns of frost on his window… and a painting resting on his easel.

  The painting he’d thrown into the Seine the night before.

  “It’s not possible,” he whispered, sitting up. “It’s not bloody possible.”

  For a while he simply sat and stared, frozen in place by fear rather than the cold. Every single event of the previous night had now been thrown into question. Had he imagined everything? Had he even gone out at all, or had he been in his bed the whole time? Had the entire encounter been a dream? He threw back the covers and approached the painting, his eyes searching for signs of damage.

  There were none.

  Chapter Two

  That afternoon, on the narrow, cobbled slopes of Montmartre, Josiah sold the Seine painting to a bejeweled elderly lady for six francs. “You have talent,” she’d said, obviously well-pleased with her purchase.

  That night, having filled his belly for the first time in days, he wandered back to the Pont au Double. The wind had lost much of its bite, though it still nipped at his ears and nose. He’d thought for a good while before deciding to return. In the end, he’d done it simply to prove to himself that the previous night’s encounter had been some kind of mental breakdown. Or, preferably, a bizarre lifelike dream. In any case, he needed to reassure himself of his sanity.

  He crossed the bridge and sat on a bench in the nighttime shadow of Notre Dame. The vantage gave him a full view of the bridge as well as the surrounding area. He could see anyone approaching. Anyone who came near. With the temperature being a little more agreeable, there were more people about.

  After a while, as usual, his gaze drifted up to the cathedral’s rose window. And, as usual, his thoughts headed north, to England. To Yorkshire. And the magnificent manor house on the edge of the moor. After tonight, he told himself, he wouldn’t come here again. He no longer wished to be reminded of home. Perhaps his nostalgia had helped to trigger the illusions of the previous night. Besides, what was the point of being reminded of Highfield? He had no intention of ever going back there.

  “The old lady got a bargain,” a familiar voice said. “You could easily have asked ten francs for that painting.”

  Josiah felt the blood leave his head. “Please,” he said, not daring to turn. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t understand what’s happening. Am I going mad?”

  There followed a soft sigh. “No, Josiah, you’re not going mad, I promise you. You simply need help, which is why I’m here. I mean you no harm. Quite the contrary. But you have to trust me.”

  Josiah laughed. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “You will, when the time is right.”

  He turned, then, to see the gentleman sitting beside him, his face in profile. “Maybe you should stop speaking in riddles,” Josiah said. “It’s hard for me to trust someone who won’t even answer my questions.”

  There followed a nod. “A fair point, sir. All right. Ask me a question. Anything at all. Something no one would know but you.”

  “What would that prove?”

  “That I know you. That I’m not exactly a stranger.”

  “
Very well.” Josiah pondered for a moment. “Do you know why I come here so often? And always at night?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s because of the rose window. It reminds you of the one at Highfield Hall. The one that is lit by candlelight every night. The candle is lit in memory of—”

  “Enough!” Josiah shook his head and gave a nervous laugh. “This entire thing is absurd.”

  “To remain here is absurd,” the man replied. “Besides, Christmas is the perfect time for a family reunion.”

  Josiah groaned. “I told you last night. I can’t go home! Not like this. I’m a complete failure. I’ll look like the fool that I am.”

  “That is merely your perspective. As I told you last night, I can change that if you’ll allow it. One night. That’s all I ask. If, by morning, you’re still adamant about staying here, I’ll leave you alone.”

  “And if I ask you to leave now?”

  “Please do not do that.”

  “But if I should ask it.”

  The man gave a sad smile. “Then I will leave, but with much regret.”

  “One night, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well.” Josiah scratched his head. “After all, what do I have to lose?”

  The gentleman stayed silent for a moment. Then, he said, “That has been the illusion all along, Joe. You actually have everything to lose.”

  Josiah didn’t remember the walk back to his apartment. He didn’t remember climbing the four flights of stairs. He didn’t remember anything till he saw his reflection in his mirror. A scarred reflection, due solely to the pockmarks and faults on the glass.

  “What now?” he asked, without looking at the man who stood beside him. A man who didn’t have any reflection at all.