Christmas Surprises

by Patricia Rice

  “I don’t believe we have been introduced, Miss Chadwick. I am Alan Ellington.” He made a graceful bow over the girl’s hand which brought instant color to her cheeks.

  She giggled slightly which made her look more her fifteen years than earlier. “I’m Laura. Marian is the only Miss Chadwick around here. She said I might come down for a little while. It’s very dreary staying in a sickroom all day.”

  “I know that from experience,” he said with conviction. “I had to spend weeks in bed once, and I didn’t like it at all. What do you usually do at this hour of the day when you are not ill?”

  “I go to school.” She smiled prettily, revealing a tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth. “Marian gives music lessons there, so they let all of us attend for half the usual fee. It is much better than sitting around this dreary house.”

  “Should you not be learning to help your mother cook and clean and do the mending? Or do they teach that at school?”

  She giggled again as he led her into the parlor and assisted her to sit on the horsehair sofa as if she were a real lady. “Oh, no, we learn lots of things, like where America is and who is the prime minister and how to sum great long columns of numbers. I don’t like the numbers, but I like hearing about other places.”

  “Then who helps your mother with the cooking and cleaning and mending?”

  “We all do, and what doesn’t get done waits for another day.’’ This voice came from the parlor door, and Alan recognized its firm, angry tones with ease.

  Standing, he watched as Marian stalked in, bearing some of the maligned mending. She gave him a glare he felt certain was meant to put him in his place and settled on the window seat.

  “We are not quite so backward in these parts as you must think, Mr. Ellington.” She picked up a small shirt and began to thread her needle. “Minds are meant to be used, particularly if one is to survive in this modern world. Laura knows how to help in the kitchen and how to sew a straight stitch, but she can also read a newssheet and sum a ledger and discuss intelligently on the Corn Law. Women cannot always rely on men to support them.”

  “I shouldn’t think either you or Miss Laura would need worry about such things,” Alan replied pacifically. “You are both too lovely to go unmarried, and too intelligent to choose husbands who would not look after you.”

  Marian gave this flattering reply an angry glare. “And I suppose that you agree with Bernard and believe women’s place is in the home, and that we need not concern ourselves with anything more serious than seeing that the pots shine and the children behave.”

  “Where I come from, that’s about all they have time to do, Miss Chadwick. Admittedly some of the older women, once their children are grown, might help their husbands occasionally with the farming or in their stores, but they are of poorer families and do it of necessity. I shouldn’t think you would have to worry about such things.”

  “Oh, heavens, no!” Marian mocked. “Why, all we have to do is choose what lovely frock to wear this evening and decide which beau we will cast our glance upon. Undoubtedly, whichever fortunate male we choose will fall at our feet and pledge us undying support for the rest of our lives, and then all we need do is choose frocks forever after. Our simple female minds need no more than that.”

  “You have the tongue of an adder, Miss Chadwick,” Alan replied fiercely, finally angered by her constant stream of sarcasm. “I believe my wife was quite content with her life, and she felt no compelling need to espouse women’s suffrage or engage in politics. Her only regret was that we had no children.”

  Marian didn’t appear properly chastised, but she withdrew her larger guns. “I did not mean to stir painful memories, Mr. Ellington. I am certain your wife was as happy as you say. That does not mean that all of us would be content with the same life. I, for one, mean never to marry. Men seem incapable of recognizing a woman’s mind, and I am incapable of closing mine.”

  Alan wanted to remind her that she had been engaged to be married once, but the memory of her earlier reaction to the subject made him hesitate, and Mrs. Chadwick entered to announce dinner before he could find a suitable reply.

  After the noon meal, with the remainder of the household engaged in their usual activities, Alan returned to the village on his own. He was beginning to realize that he was not going to get away from here as quickly as he had imagined. He had anticipated a brief visit to admire the old Hall and hear of his family’s early lives as a means of healing old wounds, but instead, he had found a war going on. He wasn’t certain that any of the inhabitants recognized it as a war, but from his more objective viewpoint, he could see the clash of cultures very clearly. In America, where everything was new, the war wasn’t so very evident. But here, the clash of modern against ancient was visible in everything from the new brick warehouses against the old manor cottage to the factory against the backdrop of fields cultivated in the same strips as they had been for centuries. There was a certain excitement in the clash of different energies, and he wanted to view it a little closer.

  Alan wouldn’t admit that there was a certain excitement in his clashes with the very modern and very pretty Miss Chadwick, though. Isabel, his late wife, had been scarcely in her grave a year, and he had adored her for years before that. He had waited impatiently for her to reach a marriageable age, and she had been younger than Miss Chadwick when she died. He didn’t wish to think of the tragedy nor to consider the contentious Miss Chadwick in any other light but that of hostess.

  There were too many other things to occupy his mind here. With determination, Alan located a livery and hired a horse. He needed to see how much of Miss Chadwick’s rebellious nature colored her words. The times couldn’t be as desperate as she made them.

  By the time Mr. Ellington returned that evening, his polished boots were mud-caked, his fawn-colored top coat was covered in dust and cobwebs, and he was frowning distractedly. The maid who let him in looked at him with surprise, but he paid no notice as he took the stairs to his room two at a time.

  The children playing in the old nursery grew quiet and giggled as they peered out the doorway when he stamped by, but Marian hushed them as she entered shortly after. Even she threw a second look over her shoulder when their guest’s door slammed. He had given her no more than a curt nod when she had passed him in the hallway.

  His humor did not bode well for the supper table. With the children fed upstairs, Robert married and in his own home, and Laura still too weak to be allowed downstairs again, there were only the three of them at the table. Marian chose the innocuous subject of the Christmas pageant and her mother offered advice while their guest frowned into his soup.

  “Did you know that there are children living over in the factory town who have no shoes?” he asked abruptly in the midst of the discussion of Joseph’s costume.

  Marian raised her eyebrows slightly but replied reasonably, “Many of them have lost parents during the influenza and cholera epidemics. Then the factory closed and now many families have no income. So far, most of them have been scraping by helping with the harvest and doing odd jobs. But now that winter’s here, I suppose they will have to go to the workhouse. We’re a poor parish, as you heard Bernard say yesterday. There is little more we can do.”

  “Workhouse?” Alan looked up, his gray eyes more steel than warm. “What is this workhouse?”

  “Do you not have workhouses in America?” Elena Chadwick asked with surprise. “What do you do with your poor?’’

  “We don’t have them in Arizona, that’s for certain. There’s more work to be done there than there are people to do it. Do workhouses give people work?”

  “I’d advise you to see for yourself,” Marian said quietly. “Bernard will take you. Tomorrow is his day to visit. Then you will see why parents prefer to let their children go without shoes than to go there.”

  Alan could tell by her tone that he wasn’t going to like what he was going to see, but he had set himself a challenge and he meant to go throug
h with it. He nodded and turned the subject to more pleasant ones.

  “I heard you discussing a Christmas tree with Mr. Dryden yesterday. I will admit to having a fancy to see one myself. Has he finally consented to allow it in the church?’ *

  “He has no choice,” Marian replied calmly, sipping her soup. “The church is the only place large enough to allow all the children and their parents. And I mean to see that they have a tree.” She smiled at a sudden thought. “Old Mrs. Jessie and some of the others are making ornaments to go on it. Mrs. Jessie has crocheted an enormous red star that will have to go on top somehow. I cannot imagine it hanging from any branch on any tree I have ever seen.”

  Alan set down his spoon. “Let me provide the tree. It is the least I can do in return for everyone’s hospitality. And I shall take care of Mr. Dryden’s objections.”

  That turned the conversation to a happier note that even lasted later, when Mrs. Chadwick was called out to attend a birthing and Marian was left to put the children to bed. However, before they could take the opportunity to lay aside their differences, another message came from an elderly neighbor asking for assistance in reading a letter that had arrived that day. Alan resignedly agreed to spend the evening alone while Marian went to read the letter and share the cake and tea the woman would have waiting.

  With the children ostensibly in bed under the supervision of a maid, Alan was left with naught to do but put his feet up before the fire and read the newssheets. He really ought to take up pipe smoking like his father, he decided a while later, when the silence of the house began to impose on him. The smell of the newly hung evergreens and the warmth of the fire curled around him, and he felt contentedly at peace for a change. It had been a long time since he had felt that way, and he stared at his stiff leg with consideration.

  The accident had crippled him in more ways than one. The day’s riding told him that. The ancient hack horse had made more muscles ache than he knew he possessed. He would never be able to ride a more spirited mount again. But the physical damage wasn’t the only damage done. The accident had taken Isabel and all hopes of a future with her. He had once envisioned building another house on his father’s acres, expanding the ranch to breed horses as well as cattle, raising his children to follow in his footsteps. Now that all seemed some ephemeral dream with no relation to the man he was now.

  His father was young and didn’t really need his help. Alan’s interest in breeding horses had ended with his inability to ride them well. He had become accustomed to the independent life and didn’t feel at home in his father’s house any longer. And he had not looked at another woman in so long, he felt uncomfortable in even thinking about it now. The pain of loneliness lingered in his eyes as he gazed up at the greenery adorning the mantel and discovered a small painted star done in a childish hand.

  It was then that he heard the patter of small feet and looked down to find little John in his rumpled nightshirt standing beside the chair, his fist wiping sleepily at his eyes. Without thought to what he did, Alan held out his arms, and the lad eagerly scrambled up to his lap, curling contentedly against his chest.

  He couldn’t remember any bedtime stories and this wasn’t a rocking chair that would soothe the child with its motion. He merely said, “The bed is cold with no one in it, isn’t it?”

  The child nodded vigorously, closed his eyes, and cuddled in the warmth of Alan’s arms before the fire, promptly went off to sleep.

  Marian and her mother returned home together, whispering so as not to awake the household. Upon entering the parlor to turn off the lamps, they discovered the sleeping pair before the dying embers, and exchanged heartrending looks. Once upon a time, another man had sat so, holding the other children. Little John had still been a toddler when his father died. He could not possibly remember those nights. But the women did, and tears formed in their eyes as Elena bent to lift the sleeping child to take him to bed.

  Ellington woke instantly, his gaze coming first to rest on Marian as she hovered nearby, hands clasped before her. His leg was stiff and would undoubtedly not move should he try to rise immediately, and he hid his embarrassment by running his hand through his hair and glancing toward the sleeping child being carried away.

  “He must have got cold,” he offered by way of explanation.

  “I’ll see he gets an extra blanket.” Awkwardly, Marian watched her mother leave the room. She didn’t want this feeling of warmth curling in her middle right now, dredged up by the sight of this man holding a child in his arms. His hair was as tousled as little John’s, and his eyes equally sleepy, but she didn’t think this feeling was at all sisterly. Stepping to the fire, she began to cover the embers. “Thank you for looking after him,” she murmured.

  Now that her back was turned, Alan gingerly lowered his leg to the floor and moved it about until he felt confident it would work. Then rising, he began the process of checking windows and doors and blowing out lamps. He remembered his own father doing that every night. It seemed a perfectly natural thing to do.

  They went up the stairs together, Alan holding the candle and offering his arm, although he was much more likely to need assistance climbing than she. He grinned at the thought, and as if understanding the jest, she smiled back. For once, they managed to part without hostile words.

  * * * *

  “They say he’s going to open the factory up.”

  “I heard he’s rich as Croesus and means to buy the old Hall.”

  “Bessie tells me the old earl is dead and the estate is selling everything. Is that true?”

  “Tell us, does he mean to open the factory? Is it true the Hall is for sale?”

  Marian heard all these rumors and questions as she shopped for vegetables for the noon meal. Walking home from the village, she allowed the voices to play and replay again in her head. Surely the man who slept in her brother’s bedroom and held a sleepy child could not be the one who had started the gossip mill flowing. Men as rich as Croesus did not come to insignificant places like this. They sat in London and sent their men of business to do their work. Did one need to be rich to open up a factory? Her pace increased with her thoughts.

  She took little notice of the sound of a horse coming up the road beside her until a familiar voice intruded.

  “Are you marching off to war again?”

  Startled, Marian looked up just as Mr. Ellington dismounted. She could almost feel his wince of pain as his stiff leg hit the ground. Torn between her need to express concern for his pain, her ire over the possibility of his opening the factory, and her confusion after last night’s intimate scene, she said nothing but resumed walking as he fell into step beside her.

  “Obviously, another foolish question,” he said aloud to himself. “Christian soldiers must always march to war. There are so many ungodly enemies, after all. Perhaps the question I should have asked was which enemy did you mean to slay today?”

  “You are being facetious, Mr. Ellington,” she replied stiffly. “I do not enjoy being made a figure of fun. Should I ask what dragon you slayed today, would you have a reply?’’

  “No, because I seem to have stirred many but slain none. They are gossiping about me in the village, aren’t they? That is one way in which both our countries are much alike.”

  His straightforwardness always caught her by surprise. Marian glanced up to see his wry expression and had to suppress a smile. He was too charming by far, even when he discarded his elegant city clothes for the more suitable tweeds of the country, and his boots were as muddied as his gloves.

  “I daresay we could visit outer Mongolia or the depths of Africa and find human nature much the same. You are a stranger, and thus open to much speculation did you do no more than sit on a bench and whittle. Apparently you have found a great deal more to entertain you than whittling this morning.”

  “Indeed, I have, but nothing so good as whatever it is they are saying about me. Did you know the grounds at the Hall have the most delightful evergreen trees? W
e have nothing at all like them in Arizona.”

  Marian had to laugh at the incipient mischief his words betrayed and had no doubt of the direction of his thoughts. She, too, had considered the trees at the Hall as ideal candidates for Christmas. “I suppose you offered to buy one and that is the reason the town thinks you are about to take up residence in the Hall?”

  “Is that what they think?” He looked surprised, but not in the least concerned. “Well, someone ought, I suppose, but at the moment it looks better suited for a hospital or an institution of some sort than a home. I persuaded the gatekeeper to give me a tour. I don’t believe the entire town where I grew up has as many rooms as that place does. Why, there is one room there so large that the entire village could attend the Christmas pageant and there would still be room for more.”

  At the tone of his voice, Marian turned to stare at him, aghast. “You wouldn’t!”

  They were walking up the drive and Alan stopped to rest his arm against his horse’s saddle while he met her dazed expression. “Why not?” he asked gently. “No one is using it. I shall write the solicitors for permission. How could they possibly deny such a charitable cause at the Christmas season?”

  Marian breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, if you mean to ask permission, that is different. I cannot imagine such a thing happening, but perhaps with your connections it might be so. Still, I’ll not say anything to anyone. Enough hopes have been dashed around here without asking for more.”

  She resumed walking and so did he, but the hesitant drawl in his reply caused her to swing around and face him once again.

  “Well-l-l, I have already sent a few people up to begin cleaning out the gallery, but I haven’t told them why,” he finished hurriedly at her astonished expression.

  Marian had the urge to cry, “You did what!” but it seemed purposeless in the face of Alan’s sheepish expression. Perhaps all Americans were so self-confident that they thought they could turn centuries of behavior around in a day. She didn’t even want to begin to imagine how he had charmed Bess and George and the gatekeeper to allow him these liberties. She sighed and began to walk again.