A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  I love him, Lord. I love him! Make me strong enough to let him go.

  Hyatt strode down the muddy path, his conviction growing with every step. Filly was wrong! She had not failed her father’s memory. Strength and kindness lived in her heart. Her tender ministrations had taught Hyatt more than Filly would ever know. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to truly care about another human being—no matter her wealth, her education, her pedigree, or her circumstance.

  As he marched after her, he hardly noticed the bright blue sky or the green juniper and piñon branches that stretched toward it. He didn’t care that his boots were caked with mud and the sleeves of his borrowed shirt barely came to his wrists. He didn’t feel the chill wind, and he gave the ache in his injured arm no heed. Pride had held him in its bondage—pride that informed him he was too good for a prospector’s daughter. But now he knew he had important business. Business he should have taken care of before now.

  “Filly?” He spotted her crumpled on the ground by a smooth gray headstone. “I have to talk to you.”

  She swung around. “Hyatt.” Coming to her feet, she motioned him away. “Don’t come here. Please. Go back to the cabin. I can’t talk to you. Not anymore.”

  “Filly, wait.” He caught her arm as she brushed past him. “There’s something I must say to you.”

  “No, Hyatt. Old Longbones is waiting. I’m expected in town.”

  “Listen to me.” He gripped her arms and forced her to stop. Turning her toward him, he met her eyes. She had been crying— and he sensed that this time her tears had little to do with her father’s death. If he was right—Dear God, let me be right—she felt exactly as he did. If she accepted him, he would have a woman who loved him for the man he was—and not for the riches he could give her. And she would have a man who longed to give her the treasures of his heart.

  “Filly,” he said.“Two weeks ago, you found me half-dead in the snow. These hours we’ve spent together have been the sweetest . . . the brightest . . . of my entire life. In many ways, I feel I’ve known you forever. If I tried, I couldn’t invent a better companion—at chess, at storytelling, at debate—than you. I couldn’t wish for a more beautiful woman to sit beside me at my dinner table—”

  “Hyatt, please.”

  Her brown eyes filled with tears again, but he went on, determined to have his say. “We know so much about each other— hopes and dreams. Even fears. But there’s something you don’t know about me. Something I’ve kept hidden. I . . . I am not . . . not completely . . . the man you believe I am. I have not wanted to tell you the truth. But, Filly . . . I love you. I must tell you—”

  “No,” she cut in, distress shuddering her voice. “I don’t want to hear it. Leave things as they are, Hyatt. Leave us with good memories. With the days of joy we’ve spent together. Don’t talk. Don’t tell me your secrets. I can’t bear it.”

  “But, Filly—”

  “No, Hyatt. I can’t love you. Not in the way you mean. Not in the way my heart demands. I can’t.”

  She pulled away from him and began running down the path. He watched her go. The fringes of her buckskins swung around her ankles beneath her heavy skirt. Her blonde braid thumped against her back. The piñon trees closed in, and his angel—the gold and shining beauty of his life, the joy of his heart—vanished in the thick forest.

  Fists clenched, Hyatt turned on his heel and stared at the place she had been kneeling. The patch of bare ground was strewn with juniper branches. The little granite headstone rose from the mud. Papa. Her papa. He walked toward the grave. Then he stopped and stared at the name carefully carved in the cold gray stone.

  Jacob Canaday

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “What is the matter with you, Farolita?” Manuela leaned over Fara’s shoulder. “Ever since you came down from Pinos Altos yesterday night, you have been so quiet. You do not even fight me when I try to lace the corset.”

  Fara picked up a hand mirror and held it behind her head to evaluate her chignon. “A little tighter, please, Manuela,” she said. “The ribbon loops, not the corset.”

  Sighing, the housekeeper fussed over the satin bow that held Fara’s bun high on her head. “Did that old Indio treat you poorly?” she asked. “When I saw that you had brought him down to Canaday Mansion, ai-yai-yai, I could not believe my eyes. What will the poor children think of that Apache? He will frighten them half to death!”

  “Old Longbones couldn’t scare anyone if he tried. He’s going to be my Santa Claus.”

  “Him? A Santa Claus with long black hair and skinny legs? A Santa Claus who once came to these mountains to murder everybody?”

  “Manuela,” Fara said softly. “That was years ago. People change, you know. They . . . they’re not always what they seem.”

  For the hundredth time, Hyatt’s blue eyes flashed into her thoughts. Fara swallowed, forcing away the memory of the last moment she had seen him. “I love you,” he had told her. “I love you.” And she had pushed him away, run from him, fled the truth she knew he must confess.

  As she rode down the mountain, she had turned his words over and over in her mind. Always, she came to the same conclusion. To care, to minister, to love with the love of Jesus Christ— that was right. But to give her heart to a man who had chosen a life of crime, a man who had shown no indication of remorse or intent to change? No, she could not do it.

  She had made the correct choice in walking away from Hyatt. She had done her part to care for him as her father had cared for Longbones. But it would be wrong to yoke herself to a man whose life contradicted what her father had taught Fara was right and good. No matter how much she had come to love him.

  Lord, help me, she prayed as Manuela fastened the twenty tiny buttons that ran up the back of her velvet gown. Help me let him go. Help me to do Your will always—no matter the consequences.

  As she stood to pull on her long white gloves, she could hear the children pouring through the mansion’s wide front doors. Giggling, chattering, exclaiming in joy over the decorations and tables groaning with treats, they scattered down the halls. Fara smiled.

  “The ratóncitos!” Manuela cried. “They swarm, they nibble, they make holes in the carpet and leave crumbs in the settee.”

  Chuckling in spite of herself, Fara started down the long winding staircase. Below her, she could see that the little mice were indeed stuffing their faces with pecan tarts and bite-sized sandwiches. A group of ragtag boys chased each other through the foyer, their muddy boots thudding on the white marble floor. A tiny girl with a mop of tangled red curls was the first to spot their hostess.

  “Miss Canaday!” she cried. “It’s Miss Canaday! Here she comes!”

  Fara continued her descent amid a chorus of cheers. The children swarmed around the foot of the stairs to touch her skirt and gawk at the pearls dripping from her necklace. Fara sank to her knees among them and gave each grimy hand a little squeeze and each ruddy cheek a kiss. “Merry Christmas!” she whispered. “And what’s your name, my little man? Oh, that’s a fine ribbon you have, young lady. Have you tried the mincemeat pies?”

  Laughing with delight, the children took her hands and dragged her toward the large living room. As she passed the dining room, she spotted Old Longbones, the sack of toys and goodies at his feet. He and Manuela were arguing over the correct way to wear the long red robe and white beard, and Fara shook her head and smiled.

  In the living room, the fifteen-foot pine glowed with a hundred tiny white candles, each perched on a branch and held by a silver clip. Blown glass balls from Germany and Bohemia glistened in the golden light. Paper fans, feathered doves, and tiny angels twirled on the thin red ribbons. In the fireplace, piñon logs crackled and snapped, sending off a spicy fragrance that filled the room.

  “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Auchmann, Mrs. Tatum, Mrs. Finsch,” Fara called as she approached the group of society matrons gathered in a clump to observe the city’s annual charity tea. They had positioned them
selves perfectly beside the tree for the newspaper’s photographer to capture their benevolent actions.

  “Mrs. Ratherton,” she said, clasping the hand of her nosy next-door neighbor. “How good of you all to come. This year I’d like all of you to help me with the children. Mrs. Auchmann, you’ll take charge of the tart table. I’ve already spotted a little fellow who will make himself ill if he doesn’t restrain himself. Mrs. Tatum and Mrs. Finsch—how lovely you both look. Please go down to the kitchen and help the cooks bring up the pies. And Mrs. Ratherton. My dear Mrs. Ratherton. Won’t you assist in carving the turkeys?”

  “Turkeys!”

  Fara gave them her most gracious smile as she strolled over to the photographer. “Mr. Austin, thank you for coming. Please keep your focus on the children this afternoon.”

  “Anything you say, Miss Canaday.” He whipped the daily paper from his pocket and held it open. “Your tea is the headline story, Miss Canaday,” he said. “I had to fight the editor to rank it over the capture of the gunslinger who shot that fellow in Phoenix. But I knew our local charity event was—”

  “Gunslinger?” Fara grabbed the paper.

  “Frank Hyatt. They caught him in West Virginia three days ago.”

  Fara stared at the blur of words. But Hyatt had been in her cabin in Pinos Altos three days ago.

  “Hyatt claims he never shot anybody in Phoenix,” the reporter said. “Claims he has an alibi. Though Hyatt did confess to the train robberies and the horse rustling, he says James Copperton must have plugged another man. Probably a fellow with the same name—poor old cayuse.”

  Another man. Who? Hardly able to breathe, Fara handed back the newspaper and drifted to the tea table. Taking her place among the servants, she began pouring out tiny porcelain cups of the finest black tea laced with frothy milk and sugar. The children lined up to receive their tea with both hands outstretched.

  Who had been in the cabin in the forest? Whom had she dragged out of the snow? Hyatt. But who was Hyatt? Who was the man she had grown to love?

  “Thank you, Miss Canaday,” a child said, drawing her attention.

  “God bless you,” she murmured in return. “William, one lump of sugar or two?”

  “She knows my name!” The boy laughed as he and his companions retired to the hearth to sip the sweet beverage.

  Yes, Fara thought, trying to order her thoughts. Papa, I know his name. And I will reach out beyond my Christmas tea to touch his family and his life.

  The ache and confusion in her heart mellowed as the town choir began to sing carols and the children settled down, balancing on their knees plates heaped with turkey, cranberries, potatoes, and hot rolls. Fara slipped out her pocket watch and opened the lid. Five o’clock—almost time for Santa Claus. She wondered if Manuela had managed to tie the white beard on Old Longbones’s chin.

  When she closed the lid on her papa’s watch, she remembered Hyatt’s snapping blue eyes as he had chastised her for being late. Her focus misted, but she swallowed at the gritty lump in her throat and stepped out into the midst of the children.

  “Boys and girls,” she said. “Every year, we come together at Christmastime to remember the precious gift God sent to earth so many years ago.”

  “Baby Jesus!” a husky voice called out.

  “That’s right, William. God sent His own son to be born on Earth. Jesus grew up to teach us that we must all learn to love each other—no matter what kind of food we eat, or the color of our skin, or the clothes we wear, or the words we speak. We must love each other as much as Jesus loved us. And do you know how much that was? He loved us enough to die for us.”

  She looked around at the shining eyes and wondered how many of these children had ever heard the message of Christ’s saving grace. “At Christmas, we remember God’s gift to us by giving gifts to each other.” Recognizing the signal of what was to follow, the children began to elbow each other and whisper. “And do you know who has come to visit us tonight? Right here at Canaday Mansion?”

  “Santa Claus!” they began to shout.

  “Santa Claus! Santa Claus!”

  Fara turned and held out a hand. “Santa Claus,” she said.

  Into the room walked a tall, brown-haired man clad in a fine black suit, a bright red tie, and a jaunty top hat. His blue eyes twinkled as he swept the hat from his head and gave Fara a deep bow. She caught her breath as he swung the sack of toys from his back and set it on the floor. Before the children could move, he bent down on one knee and took Fara’s hand.

  “Miss Canaday,” he announced. “I am Aaron Hyatt, the son of William Hyatt of Sacramento, California.”

  “Of the Golden Hyatts!” Mrs. Ratherton whispered loudly to Mrs. Auchmann. “He’s worth a fortune!”

  “Before his death, my father asked me to travel to Silver City to meet you—the daughter of Jacob Canaday, his oldest and dearest friend.”

  Fara clutched her throat, unable to speak. Him? This was Aaron Hyatt, the man she had dreaded meeting so much she had run away to Pinos Altos? The man she had tended so faithfully— whose clothes she had washed and whose arm she had nursed— was Aaron Hyatt? This was Aaron Hyatt?

  “I come to you now on bended knee, Miss Canaday,” he said. “I want you to know I love you with my whole heart. Filly . . . will you marry me?”

  Mrs. Ratherton let out a muffled shriek. “Run for cover, Mrs. Finsch!” she cried. “It’s another suitor. She’ll go for that shotgun!”

  In the midst of the confusion, Fara looked down into blue eyes that mirrored a love so deep and true she could not have believed it, had she not felt it in her own heart. Smiling, she fought the tremble in her lips.

  “Mr. Hyatt,” she said softly. The room fell so still not even a child wiggled. “Your love has made me the happiest woman in all the world. Yes, I will marry you.”

  The crowd erupted into cheers. The children leapt to their feet. The choir began to sing “Jingle Bells.” Mrs. Ratherton fainted, and Mrs. Finsch, Mrs. Tatum, and Mrs. Auchmann drew out their ostrich-feather fans and tried to revive her. The photographer snapped wildly, sending puffs of black smoke through the room. Old Longbones wandered into the chaos, the white beard dangling from the back of his head, and began doling out presents.

  “Merry Christmas,” Fara said, drawing Hyatt to his feet.

  Strong arms slipped around her and folded her close. Fara drifted in the heady security of a future bright with glad tidings of comfort and joy. When she lifted her head to gaze into the blue eyes of the man she loved, Hyatt’s warm lips brushed against hers.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “My Christmas angel.”

  BISCOCHITOS

  From the kitchen of Grandma Rufina and Aunt Tillie

  1 lb lard (or margarine)

  1½ cups sugar (granulated)

  2 eggs

  1–1½ tsps anise seeds

  6 cups flour

  3 tsps baking powder

  1 tsp salt

  13–½ cup sweet red wine (or grape juice)

  ½ cup sugar mixed with 1 tsp cinnamon (can be adjusted to taste)

  Cream sugar and lard (or margarine) until light and fluffy. Add eggs and anise seeds. Mix well. Sift flour with baking powder and salt. Add to sugar and egg mixture a little at a time (4 to 5 additions). Knead until dough holds together. (Avoid overmixing as this makes dough tough.) Add wine (or grape juice) as needed to help hold mixture together. Roll out dough to about ½-inch thick. (Cookies should be thick.) Cut using seasonal or traditional fleur-de-lis shapes.

  Bake at 350 degrees for approximately 10 to 12 minutes. Note: Cookies do not brown.

  Remove cookies from cookie sheet and allow to cool. Dust both sides of the cookies with the cinnamon and sugar mixture. Store in an airtight container. Cookies freeze well.

  LONE STAR

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. . . . When you pray, I will listen. If you look for
me wholeheartedly, you will find me.”

  JEREMIAH 29:11-13

  CHAPTER ONE

  December 1886

  London, England

  “Howdy, mister.” Star Ellis snipped off a length of cotton thread and laid her diminutive swan-neck scissors atop the piecework on her lap. “Colder than frog legs out there, I’d say.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The gentleman entering the coach paused to appraise her with a pair of eyes the exact shade of a Texas bluebonnet. He took off his top hat and sat down on the leather seat facing hers. “Did you mention amphibians, madam?”

  “I was talking about the weather. Polite conversation, you know.” Shaking her head, Star threaded her slender silver needle. As the passenger coach began to roll away from Victoria Station, she picked up the length of bright cotton diamonds she was stitching together and began to work the needle back and forth through the fabric. If the only other traveler on this journey couldn’t grasp the rudiments of good manners, so be it. She didn’t have much of an appetite for talk anyway.

  Weeks of steamship travel from Houston to New York to London had frayed the edges of her patience. Star had never had much patience to begin with, and her current circumstances left little room for feminine niceties and grace. Back in Texas, terrible blizzards had descended on her father’s cattle ranch for the second winter in a row. Ahead on the frigid moors of northern England, a British aristocrat—a total stranger—waited to marry her. The first calamity had pushed her toward the second. She was trapped in their midst with no way out.

  This would be her first Christmas away from home. The carriage driver had decorated his rig for the season, and his efforts at festivity were consoling. He had tacked a sprig of mistletoe over the door, and he’d tied garlands of fragrant pine twined with red ribbons on the window frames. All the same, memories of the Ellis family fireplace hung with bright knitted stockings, the cinnamony scent of hot apple cider bubbling on the stove, and the chatter of brothers and sisters threading popcorn into long garlands made Star’s heart ache.