How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas

by Jeff Guinn

  “Missus Hayes?” I asked politely. “Please don’t be surprised I know your name. Mine is Layla, and I’m a friend of your sister Pamela Forrest in London. We work in the same place.”

  “Well, now!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her smile growing even wider. “Pamela has told me often about how much she enjoys where she works and the kind people there. Though, you know, I can’t ever get her to provide many details, like what, for instance, you make.”

  It was gratifying to know that Pamela was keeping our secrets, even from her beloved sister. “Oh, we make many things,” I said vaguely. “I don’t know from one day to the next what we’ll be putting together.” That, certainly, was true.

  “Well,” Elizabeth said, “by the sun I can see it’s getting past noon, and some food will make a pleasant day seem even better. Sara, get out an extra plate, and please see the table is free of dust.” The child hurried inside. Elizabeth took my arm and led me through the door.

  The cottage was unremarkable. It was, in the 1640s tradition of rural England, one large room with a narrow ladder leading up to a small loft. In one corner of the downstairs room was a fireplace, which provided both warmth and a means to cook. Pots dangled over the fire on hooks, while pans might be placed directly in its embers. A pallet covered by a quilt in another corner was where Elizabeth and her husband slept. I knew little Sara would have her own place up the ladder in the loft. There were a few simple chairs with high, straight backs in front of the fire, and there was a small table where Sara was busily setting out three sets of plates, cups, and knives. She had taken these from a cupboard standing against the plaster wall. I could see these things clearly because the sun was shining through several open windows. The windows had no glass—only the very richest people could afford such luxury—but were protected by heavy wooden shutters that could be closed and latched in case of bad weather or when the people inside wanted privacy. Somewhere behind the house, I knew, would be the “privy,” and some yards away from that, a well.

  “I’m sorry my husband, Alan, isn’t here to greet you, too,” Elizabeth said as she poured some water from a bucket into a bowl. “Here, please soak this cloth and wipe the dirt from your face and hands. I can tell you’ve been traveling for some time. Anyway, Alan has just left as part of a crew sailing over to the Americas and will be gone at least a year, since they are delivering goods in several places and then picking up other goods to bring back to English markets—mostly tobacco, I believe.”

  “You and Sara must be lonely with him gone,” I said.

  Elizabeth reached out and affectionately ruffled her daughter’s fine blonde hair. “Well, of course we miss Alan, but we’re a sailor’s family and have learned to accept his lengthy absences. Are you hungry, Layla? What we have to offer isn’t fancy, but it’s healthy and filling. Bread to start, from local wheat. Fine cabbage and carrots from Sara’s garden in the back. I’m sorry we can’t offer you beer, but the water from our well is so fresh and clear that it’s what we prefer to drink. The cheese is good; all our local dairy is excellent. And, for an after-sweet, we’ll have pears from our very own tree. Will that do?”

  “It all sounds delicious,” I replied, and helped Elizabeth get out the food and set it on the table. Sara helped, too, but I noticed she still avoided looking directly at me, and she didn’t say anything at all. When everything was ready, we pulled chairs to the table. Elizabeth offered a short but eloquent blessing, thanking God for both food and a new friend to share it with. As we ate, Elizabeth and I enjoyed pleasant conversation. Sara didn’t talk, but I could sense she was listening and remembering every word I said about my husband, Nicholas, being a colonist in the New World, and how someday soon I planned to join him. Elizabeth told some amusing stories about Pamela and their happy childhood together. She’d always thought her older sister would live right beside her in Canterbury, Elizabeth said, but then Pamela met Clive, whose ambitions took him to London—“We country folk don’t need barbers, really”—and so now the sisters seldom saw each other.

  “We send letters back and forth though, whenever someone we know comes to Canterbury from London or vice versa,” Elizabeth said as we finished the last of our cheese and prepared to wipe the plates with cloths to clean them.

  “That reminds me of something,” I said, though I really hadn’t needed reminding. I’d just been waiting for the right moment. “Your sister sent you a letter that I hope you’ll read.” I took it from my pocket and handed it to her.

  Sara Hayes

  “Lovely!” said Elizabeth, and she walked over to a window where she would have more light. I watched anxiously as she bent over the note. A moment later, she began to frown.

  “Sara,” she called out to the little girl, who was putting the cleaned plates back into the cupboard. “Go out, please, and pick us some pears from the tree. Take them over to the river and wash them before you bring them in.”

  “The well is closer,” Sara replied. It was the first time I’d clearly heard her voice, which was soft and sweet.

  “I prefer you rinse them in the river,” her mother said firmly. “Now, get to it.” Sara disappeared out the door. Elizabeth looked at me thoughtfully, then returned to her sister’s letter. After several long, silent minutes, she folded the note, placed it in the pocket of her dress, and said to me, “This message is quite interesting.”

  “I can leave at once,” I said carefully, not certain of her mood.

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “Pamela tells me you are her good, honest friend, but that you’ve somehow come to the attention of bad people and must stay away from London for a while. I already know Richard Culmer’s name. He was minister for a brief time at a church here, but he spent his pulpit hours informing everyone they were doomed unless they embraced God exactly as he did, with no music or altar decorations or even, it seemed, happiness. Archbishop Laud removed him from office. Of course, now the archbishop is in a Roundhead prison, and Blue Richard is free to arrest whoever he will. And that number includes you. Why?”

  “He claims I must be a spy for the king,” I answered. “It isn’t true. I believe my real crime has been to believe in the celebration of Christmas, which, as you know, the Puritans would take away if they could.”

  Elizabeth nodded. She wasn’t smiling now. “Christmas is important in this house, always a welcome time to celebrate Jesus with songs and treats. I too would hate to lose it. But I also realize it can be dangerous to flaunt opposing beliefs around those with the power to arrest anyone who disagrees with them.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re right,” I said. “In any event, I certainly don’t wish to put you or your child in any danger. Pamela said I might be able to stay with you for a time, but if you feel that isn’t possible, don’t be embarrassed to say so. I know there’s no real reason for you to risk what you have to help a stranger.”

  Elizabeth smiled again. “There’s a very good reason. The Bible tells us that the blessing works both ways when strangers are treated as welcome guests. My husband is away for a long while. I’d be glad to have another grown-up for company. I will ask you not to tell Sara about this arrest warrant. There’s no reason for a child to be implicated if, for some reason, they find you here. But otherwise, please be a welcome guest in our home. Though the Puritans rule in Canterbury—our mayor is outspoken in his support of their cause—the rest of us just want to live in peace and have goodwill toward people of all beliefs. So long as you don’t draw too much attention to yourself, you should be safe here.”

  Relief washed over me. I hadn’t realized, until that moment, how nervous I had felt as a fugitive on the run with no specific place to find shelter.

  “If, at any time, you feel I’m imposing, don’t hesitate to tell me,” I said. “And, of course, I’ll want to do my share of chores and help out in any other way I can. I have a blanket in my pack, so just show me where you’ll want me to sleep, and I thank you for your generosity.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll have
you sleep up in the loft with Sara,” Elizabeth said. “She has a wide pallet, and you’ll find it more comfortable than just a blanket on the floor. And it will do her good to have company, even if she doesn’t want any. You may have noticed she’s very shy and doesn’t talk much. She’s always been that way, hesitant to make her opinions heard. But she is a very intelligent child, and I love her dearly.”

  “Will your neighbors wonder why you suddenly have a guest?” I asked. “I know, in the country, such events can cause gossip.”

  “We’ll just say you’re a cousin who’s come to stay a while,” Elizabeth said. “It makes perfect sense, with my husband away on a voyage and your husband being a colonist across the ocean. Sara,” she called out to the child, who was just coming back in with an armful of pears that dripped river water on her arms and dress, “it turns out that Layla is a distant cousin. She’s part of our family, and will be staying with us for a bit. Isn’t that splendid?”

  Sara nodded.

  “Can’t you welcome our cousin?” Elizabeth urged.

  The little girl looked up at me, and I again was struck by her lovely blue eyes and sweet face.

  “Welcome,” she muttered, and blushed as she spoke that single word.

  “Do better than that,” her mother suggested. “Say, ‘Welcome, Cousin Layla.’ ”

  Now Sara spoke up, though to her mother and not to me. “It’s rude to call a grown-up ‘cousin,’ ” she said.

  “All right,” Elizabeth said, “then call her Missus—” She looked at me, a question unspoken but obvious. I didn’t want to repeat my mistake with Cromwell, when he had ended up thinking my husband’s name was Nicholas Nicholas. I thought furiously for a moment.

  “Please call me Aunt Layla, Sara,” I said.

  The girl looked at me, and this time she smiled just a little.

  “Welcome, Aunt Layla,” she said softly, and put the pears down on the table. For a moment I hoped she might hug me, but she didn’t. I still felt pleased. This was the first time in my life, I realized, that a child had ever addressed me as anything other than an adult stranger. I liked it very much.

  I would lug wooden buckets to the vats, fill them with water, then bring the heavy, swinging buckets into the washing shed, where I would empty their contents into the tubs.

  CHAPTER Twelve

  Three days later, Elizabeth and Sara took me into Canterbury, where Elizabeth worked at the house of the mayor. “Avery and Margaret Sabine do a great deal of entertaining, both for business and political reasons,” Elizabeth explained. “Mr. Sabine has made his fortune as a trader in cloth goods, and also in farm tools like plows and lathes, buying them from factories in big cities and selling them to local people. He and Mrs. Sabine have some hopes of him getting an important place in national government, at least if the Roundheads prevail in this current struggle. So, quite often, they have prominent dignitaries in to dine. Mostly my job is to help keep their home clean, but sometimes at these dinners I also help serve food. It’s not a bad job, and we need the money I earn. Sara keeps outgrowing her dresses.”

  Walking along between her mother and me, Sara made a face, but didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, my sweetheart, I’m just glad you’re a healthy girl,” her mother said gently. “And a smart one, too. She can already read, Cousin Layla, and write almost any word in the English language.”

  “How wonderful, Sara,” I exclaimed. “Do you go to school in town?”

  Again, Sara grimaced, and let her mother answer for her.

  “Canterbury has no school for girls, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth said. “There’s some basic grammar instruction for the boys when it’s not harvest time. But the Sabines have a daughter named Sophia who is the same age as Sara, and the girls are good friends. Sophia has begun private instruction in reading and spelling and sums, and Sara has been allowed to share these classes with her. It’s a rare opportunity, and one we appreciate very much.”

  “Sophia says she will marry a great lord some day, and when she does I will become her lady-in-waiting,” Sara said. I waited, hoping she would say more, but she didn’t.

  “Do you want to be a lady-in-waiting, Sara?” I finally asked.

  After a few moments of silence, Sara said, “I want to see something,” and skipped on ahead. Her mother shook her head and smiled fondly.

  “Sara is a quiet little girl with big dreams,” Elizabeth confided. “She has heard of wonderful cities around the world, and longs to visit them.”

  “Do you want her to do this?” I asked.

  “I want my daughter to be happy, and it’s a hard world we live in,” she replied. “If Sophia does marry well and travel with her husband, and if she does make Sara her lady-in-waiting, well, perhaps some of Sara’s dreams will come true. But you and I are old enough to know about the danger of dreams, aren’t we? If a poor girl wishes for too much, she’s likely to be bitterly disappointed. I hope Sara will be realistic as she grows up.”

  “I believe in dreams,” I said. “Well, back to present problems. Do you think Mrs. Sabine will hire me?”

  After just three days as Elizabeth and Sara’s guest, I was entirely bored with staying inside the cottage all day. I didn’t know whether keeping out of sight was really necessary. The civil war had erupted, and surely Blue Richard Culmer’s attention was directed at something other than a woman who loved Christmas. Today with modern technology, perhaps my picture would have been circulated everywhere, but this was 1642 England and the sixty miles between Canterbury and London were, probably, as good as six thousand. As long as I didn’t call too much attention to myself, I decided, I would probably be safe.

  This was another reason why I thought I’d better find employment. In country towns, people took notice of everyone else’s business, and while a distant relative staying for a time with her cousin wouldn’t be considered worthy of gossip, an able-bodied woman remaining home while her hostess worked certainly would. Elizabeth said Mrs. Sabine often hired women to do menial, time-consuming chores like laundry and cooking. The work certainly wouldn’t be very interesting for me—I was used to traveling the world and giving gifts, after all—but it would fill the hours and help me blend into the community.

  We came into Canterbury through Riding Gate, one of the town’s easternmost entrances. There were two guards at the gate, and Elizabeth had to stop and let them look through the basket she was carrying.

  “Sorry to trouble you, missus,” one of the guards said. “But we’ve got orders to be extra careful, what with the battle and all.” He was referring to the fight at Edge Hill, where the king’s army had gotten the better of the Roundheads. Everyone in Canterbury, and, I assumed, England, was talking about it. Parliament’s army had marched in shouting that God was on their side, but their soldiers were mostly untrained farm hands and the king had somehow found enough money to hire a few experienced foreign militia. The result wasn’t what the rebels had thought God had guaranteed them. According to the rumors, Oliver Cromwell—who was an officer in the Roundhead army, but not its commander—was angry because his troops hadn’t received the training they’d needed before being sent in to fight. Cromwell had retreated with his soldiers—who were mostly the men who normally worked for him in his fields—to his estate near London, promising that he would only return when his troops were properly prepared. The king’s victorious army stayed farther north. His commanders wanted to get better organized, too, and finish off the rebels for good when next they fought.

  Since Canterbury was a Roundhead town, everyone was afraid of what would happen if the king triumphed. Certainly, those who had sided with the rebels might be punished. And, truthfully, most of the people living in and around Canterbury really didn’t care about the war, except for wanting it to be over. They had farms to tend or shops to manage. They wanted, on Sundays, to go to the churches of their choice and worship as they pleased. But their city government, led by Avery Sabine, was firmly Roundhead. He controlled the local militia, w
hich meant his word was law. Even if there was popular demand for a new election, Sabine’s people would be the ones counting the ballots.

  Avery Sabine

  “If the king’s forces win, won’t that mean the end for Avery Sabine?” I asked Elizabeth as we made our way through the town’s streets toward the house of the mayor. “If he and his family have to flee, I supposed that’s the end of your job, and Sara’s chance to be a lady-in-waiting.”

  “Somehow, I believe Mr. Sabine will do quite well no matter what,” Elizabeth said, looking to be certain Sara was too far away to overhear. “When you meet him, you’ll understand. He’s one of those people who know how to be a good friend to whoever is in power. He’s with the Puritans now because he thinks they’ll eventually win, but if it turns out that the king retains control, then Mr. Sabine will be His Majesty’s most loyal, and most visible, supporter. Meanwhile, here we are at the house. Let’s go through the kitchen in back, and I’ll see if Mrs. Sabine is available.” She called sharply, “Sara, wait with Cousin Layla.”

  The mayor’s home was a sprawling brick structure, obviously very expensive to build. I stood in the kitchen watching people bustling around, carrying loads of food or clothes and talking to one another about the big dinner party the next day, and would the venison haunches arrive in time to be properly grilled before serving? But there was order to the bustle; someone ran this great household with efficiency, and soon enough Elizabeth returned with her. Margaret Sabine was a towering woman, almost six feet tall in an era when men seldom surpassed five and a half feet, and she was wide to match. Mrs. Sabine’s dress was silk, rare for everyday wear, and her auburn wig was spectacular in both size and color.