How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas

by Jeff Guinn

  “The livelihoods of so many people here depend on the goodwill of Mayor Avery Sabine,” he reminded me. “Sabine, for instance, owns all the mills that grind local farmers’ corn. They can’t sell the crop as it comes directly from their fields. If the farmers join a pro-Christmas protest and Sabine sees them, he can simply refuse to grind their corn, they’ll have nothing to sell, and their families might starve.”

  “Think about those of us who work for Mrs. Sabine, Layla,” Elizabeth added. “If she saw any of us, or any members of our families, involved in some Christmas protest that might embarrass her husband and hurt his prospects in politics, she would certainly dismiss us immediately.”

  “I think the Sabines couldn’t retaliate if there were enough protestors,” I argued. “The mayor’s mills, for instance, can’t make profits for him if they have no grain to grind up. If enough of the farmers were part of the protest, Sabine couldn’t deny them the use of his mill because, at the same time, he’d be shutting down his own business. And Mrs. Sabine has no intention of ever doing her own laundry or sweeping her own floors.”

  Alan shook his head. “You make it sound easier than it would really be, I’m afraid. Just persuading enough people to participate in that sort of demonstration would take months, perhaps even years. As much as all of us love Christmas, we have to consider our responsibilities to our families, too. The risks for anyone involved would be great.”

  That night, up in the loft bed beside the sleeping Sara, I thought about what Alan had said. He was right, of course. I reminded myself that the risk for any of the working-class folk in and around Canterbury would be much greater than the danger to me. They would have to stay and face the consequences of their actions. I, on the other hand, would be leaving soon to rejoin my husband in America. I had to, and not only because I missed Nicholas so much.

  All of us involved in the gift-giving mission had to be careful not to stay in one place for too long or if we did, like Arthur and Leonardo in London, to keep out of sight. Normal people aged quite rapidly. In Europe and in England, living to sixty was rare. The passage of three or four years resulted in obvious signs of aging. Peoples’ faces creased with wrinkles. Their hair rapidly turned gray. I had been in Canterbury since 1642, arriving as a thirty-five-year-old woman, about the same age then as Elizabeth Hayes was now. She was still lovely, but there were new lines around her eyes and streaks of white in her lustrous brown hair. Sometimes, now, she teased me a little, saying things like I must have a guardian angel who kept my hair from turning gray, and wasn’t it wonderful how a few lucky women like me never seemed to get wrinkles around their eyes and mouths? In another year, perhaps, certainly in two or three, it would be obvious that I was not growing any older. Though I knew there was nothing sinister in this or my other special powers, that view would not be shared by the Puritan clergy or a superstitious public. Arrest and burning at the stake for being a witch would not be out of the question. So I would have to leave soon, whether Christmas in England was saved or not.

  In the spring of 1646, Alan Hayes made several short trips to London, talking to various captains about their upcoming voyages and trying to choose which ship’s crew to join. He didn’t want to be away from his family for two or three years on some around-the-world adventure; instead, Alan hoped to find a berth on a ship making a direct voyage from some British port across the ocean to America, taking on tobacco or some other cargo, and then coming straight back to England.

  “Six months is as long as I want to be gone from now on,” he told us. “My little girl is growing up, and I’ve missed too much of her life already. You’re going to be thirteen, Sara, and for all I know I’ll come back from my next voyage to find you’ve married a young man and started a family of your own.”

  Sara squirmed and made an awful face. “I don’t want to marry anyone,” she insisted. “All Sophia ever talks about now is what rich man might become her husband. It’s boring!” I sympathized with Sara, but I also knew what Alan meant. Being with Sara had helped me understand how precious every parent should find each day of a child’s life. Already, my darling girl no longer played with dolls. She was becoming a beauty. At church on Sunday, some of the boys couldn’t stop staring at her. As yet, she didn’t notice, but someday soon she might. At least up in the loft at night she still whispered to me about her wish to travel and see all the great cities in the world. I would tell her to keep her dreams and make them come true, just as my Aunt Lodi had once encouraged me.

  When he returned from London, Alan also brought us up to date on the latest news. For anyone who loved Christmas, it wasn’t good. By June, the civil war was officially over. Commanders of the royal army had signed peace treaties, and King Charles had surrendered—to the Scots, not the Roundheads. While in their custody, he was rumored to spend his days secretly communicating with leaders in Ireland and France, trying to convince them to send armies and restore him to his throne. Queen Henrietta was in Europe trying to do the same thing; the two oldest princes, Charles and James, were with their mother.

  In London, Alan reported, Parliament seemed divided on what to do next. Some wanted to settle with the king on almost any terms, as soon as the Scots could be persuaded to hand him over. These members were mostly businessmen who had made great profits during the war and now hoped to have a royal blessing to do the same in times of peace. Oliver Cromwell led a faction that wanted the king to remain on his throne, but only if he would agree to accept Parliament as a full partner. Then there was another group called the levelers—they wanted to abolish the crown and, indeed, every form of social class. All who lived in England must be equals, they insisted.

  Many leaders in Parliament wanted the Roundhead army to be disbanded. Now that the king was defeated and the English government no longer planned to meddle in Europe, there was no need for a standing army, they argued. Cromwell loudly disagreed; the army, he insisted, was necessary because the king’s supporters might, at any time, attack with new troops. It was also true, although Cromwell didn’t say it, that so long as the Roundhead army remained intact, he, as its chosen leader, was the most powerful man in England. Though he never threatened it, no one could doubt that if Parliament didn’t do what Cromwell wanted, he could muster the army and take over the country. Some people even believed Cromwell eventually intended to make himself the new king.

  So the last months of 1646 were nervous times, because no one could be quite sure what was going to happen next. Would Charles again be England’s king? Would Queen Henrietta be successful recruiting invaders from Europe to sweep Parliament out of power? And, of course, everyone wondered about Christmas. Charles had always supported the holiday—I knew this from our single conversation—but the Puritans would never let him remain on the throne without extracting certain concessions, one of which would surely be his support in abolishing Christmas celebrations. It may seem to some of you now that one holiday would count very little in the minds of working people, compared to who would rule their country. But you must remember how hard these times were for the poor, and how December 25 was really the only day when they could forget their troubles and deprivations by celebrating the birth of Jesus. The more it seemed obvious they would lose their single real holiday, the more precious it became to them.

  Alan Hayes left on a voyage to America in September 1646, promising his wife and daughter he would return to them no later than spring. At the same time, I began mentioning to Elizabeth and Sara that I might soon be leaving, too, and my departure would be permanent. I couldn’t tell them I had to go before they discovered I wasn’t aging, of course. I told them that it was soon going to be time for me to join my own husband, though I loved my Canterbury “family” dearly.

  “We can’t be selfish about Auntie Layla,” Elizabeth reminded her daughter; Sara had burst into tears at the thought of my going away. “She wants to be with her husband just as you and I want to be with your father. Do you know for certain when you will leave, Layla?”


  “Probably within another year,” I replied. “It will take some time to book passage on a ship, and, of course, I don’t want to cross the ocean during the cold storms of winter.”

  “You are welcome in our home for as long as you want to stay,” Elizabeth reminded me. “At least we’ll have you with us for one more Christmas.”

  That was another reason I didn’t plan to leave right away. With the Puritans and Roundheads in full control, Blue Richard Culmer wasn’t constantly on the track of those he accused of being royalist spies. He spent most of his time now in London, waiting, perhaps, for orders to persuade reluctant members of Parliament to do whatever it was Cromwell and the Puritans wanted. I wasn’t in quite as much danger of discovery and arrest if I tried to organize one last, great Christmas protest in Canterbury. But I had to be certain that the time was just right.

  In 1645, Parliament had essentially banned Christmas, but many celebrated it that year anyway, usually quietly in their homes, and they had not been arrested or otherwise persecuted. People had begun to hope that Parliament, having passed its Puritan-inspired law against the holiday, might now be content after making that gesture to let each English citizen decide whether or not to completely comply. As long as there wasn’t any public celebration, some believed, perhaps the Puritans really didn’t care who enjoyed a goose dinner or some family carol-singing on December 25. I knew that wasn’t the case—the Puritans were just distracted with setting up a whole new system of English government. When they had completed that task, they’d turn their attention to Christmas again, because Oliver Cromwell was their leader, and Cromwell never left anything uncompleted. Because people were so uncertain how to celebrate it, and what might happen to them if they did, I realized it would do no good yet to organize a protest supporting the full enjoyment of the holiday. In a few more months, when the unsettled state of English government was resolved, then we would all know for certain what the fate of Christmas would be. Until then, no one would be willing to do too much.

  So Christmas 1646 was a very curious day throughout England. Some churches, usually only one or two in each community, bravely sported holly and evergreen boughs on their doors, windowsills, and altars, and there were services in them giving thanks to God for sending his son. In almost every case, black-robed Puritans made a point of gathering outside the churches and staring hard at the worshippers as they left. This was rather unpleasant, but there were no physical attacks, just shouted threats of God’s stern judgment if they didn’t renounce the celebration of a “pagan” holiday. Most people couldn’t go to church, anyway, because all the shops were open and lots of men and women had to work. A few shopkeepers did ostentatiously keep their doors bolted and their windows shuttered, and, afterward they received no further trade from Puritan customers. Because most of the major landowners now were either Puritans or defeated royalists who wanted to get back in the government’s good graces, no wealthy families encouraged or accepted Christmas Day visits by groups of townspeople to their homes. No waits strolled singing through the streets, but there weren’t any protest marches, either, even in London. Out in public, the day was subdued.

  In private homes, of course, it was often different. With the toy factory in London shut down, I wondered if Arthur, Leonardo, or any of the other companions were making Christmas visits to children in England. I had not heard from them since they left for Germany the year before. This did not particularly worry me. There was no official mail service, so getting a letter to me in Canterbury from Nuremberg would have been difficult. If there was something they thought I needed to know, they would find a way to bring me word.

  On the morning of December 25, Elizabeth and Sara found candy canes on their pillows. Leonardo had sent along a whole boxful, and it was only right to share the bright, tasty treats with my friends, though there were many dozens left over. We went to the Sabine house, Elizabeth and I to work, Sara to visit upstairs with Sophia. She told us later that Sophia’s gossip once again concerned her father: Avery Sabine had hopes that if he could exhibit one last year of firm control over Canterbury he might be appointed to some important government office.

  “Then, Sophia says, she and her parents will move to London,” Sara reported as we walked slowly home afterward. “She told me not to worry, though, because she will surely marry some nobleman soon after that, and then I will be called to London as her lady-in-waiting.” Elizabeth and I sighed. Sophia was a very pretty girl, and a rich one, too. If she did move to London, she wouldn’t lack for suitors, and her ambitious parents would be eager to make a good social match as quickly as possible.

  “And will you go to London if Sophia asks you?” Elizabeth asked carefully, trying and failing to keep concern out of her voice.

  “I want to see London, but I don’t want to be anyone’s servant,” Sara replied. “When I tell Sophia that, she just laughs.”

  That Christmas night, Elizabeth and Sara and I dined on vegetables and fruit, but not goose. Alan was still away on his voyage, and his wages for the trip would be paid after his ship returned to England. Elizabeth and I had our earnings from Margaret Sabine, but lately prices had increased on every kind of food, and we simply could not afford goose that year. It made little difference, though. The three of us heartily enjoyed the food we did have, and after dinner we sat in front of the fire and sang carols. If Oliver Cromwell doubted that the spirit of Christmas mattered less to those celebrating it than fine food and gifts, he could have learned better by watching us that night. After we had sung every carol we knew, some of them twice or three times, Sara asked me about the wonderful candy canes, and I explained to her that a special friend of mine had made them. When she tried to learn more about this mysterious friend, I changed the subject, telling her about the waits who used to walk the streets of London and about the great churches I had seen where thousands gathered to praise God and his son on Christmas Day.

  I meant, very soon afterward, to make my plans to go, only waiting until Alan Hayes arrived home in the spring so Elizabeth and Sara would not be left on their own. I thought about how wonderful it would feel to be with Nicholas again and tried very hard not to imagine the empty place that would be left in my heart without Sara. So long as the Puritans allowed people to at least quietly celebrate Christmas in their own homes, I believed, I might as well leave. Even the smallest spark of Christmas spirit and joy was better than none. Somewhere, someday, enough people in England would demand their full, wonderful holiday again, and it would be restored. Until then, I reasoned, my place was with my husband, fulfilling our gift-giving mission in lands where Christmas was still completely welcome.

  Alan’s return home was delayed until late May, which still left me plenty of time to book passage to the New World and be with my husband before the onset of winter. But the news Alan brought with him from London convinced me I could not leave England after all.

  Alan and I were the first to arrive, but soon afterward we saw flickers of small lanterns being carried by people making their way up the hill toward the barn.

  CHAPTER Seventeen

  The first months of 1647 were difficult for the Puritancontrolled Parliament. The war was over, and the king was defeated. But victory did not guarantee the love and loyalty of the common people. Many working-class English men and women, perhaps even a majority, had liked it better when the king was on his throne. They were very suspicious of the Puritans and of Parliament. Even though its members were supposedly voted into office at regular intervals by the taxpayers, this Parliament had been in session since 1640 without benefit of reelection. They kept extending their own current terms without requesting public approval. Many called it the Long Parliament, and they didn’t intend the nickname as a compliment.

  Parliament made an agreement with the Scots for the return of King Charles. In exchange for several large payments, the Scottish leaders handed the king over to England, where he remained a prisoner while rebel leaders negotiated with him. If Charles agre
ed to Parliament’s terms, there was still the chance he would regain his throne. If not, he faced a life in prison and perhaps even execution. But as soon as Charles was in Parliament’s custody, a stunning thing happened. As the defeated king’s carriage proceeded south to the estate where he would be kept captive, the common folk of England lined the road and cheered him as he passed. This made the leaders of Parliament very nervous—what if there was a popular uprising to restore the king? Parliament had just voted to stop raising money to pay the army, so the Roundhead soldiers might very well refuse to fight anymore.

  “Parliament feels it must do something to prove it is in complete control of England,” Alan reported after his arrival home in Canterbury. “I believe one of its members, Lord Manchester, called it ‘Bringing the rabble to heel.’ Rumor has it there will be a new, harsher law against Christmas, because, so far, so many people have ignored the ruling of two years ago that it should no longer be celebrated.”

  “What can Parliament really do if people want to sing carols or feast in honor of Jesus’ birth, so long as we do this in our own homes?” Elizabeth wanted to know. “They can’t punish everyone who does. Under the laws of this country, no one is supposed to tell us what we may or may not do within the walls of our own homes, so long as we are not plotting treason.”

  “No,” Alan said thoughtfully, “but they can try—and they might. I’m sorry to say, my love, that those presently in power seem to define ‘treason’ as any beliefs that do not exactly match their own. Those they cannot persuade, they are quite willing to intimidate. Blue Richard Culmer is stalking through the streets of London once more, followed by his gang of nasty-looking thugs. Parliament meets again during the first week in June. That, I expect, is when we’ll have more laws about Christmas. It is on that issue—whether or not it is sinful to celebrate the birth of Christ on December 25—that the Puritans intend to make their stand and to prove once and for all that they can force their beliefs on the rest of us.”