Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote

by Prairie Christmas Collection

  Lane chuckled. “I can’t exactly take credit for the idea.”

  “I’ve been hanging onto my love for Colin like … like it was a shield. I didn’t realize it until last night. I was using my love for him to keep the risk of loving someone else away. It’s not that I didn’t love him,” she rushed to explain. “I did love him, truly.”

  “I know that.” His voice was quiet and low.

  “During your candle parable tonight, I understood … oh, I don’t know if I can make it clear to you, but … when a person lights one candle and then blows the original candle out, the second candle still burns.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know the sermon was about God’s love, but … it’s like that with Colin.” It was terrifying to share this. What if Lane thought her a fool? But she didn’t know any other way to tell him. “Colin’s love touched my life deeply. When he died, what I learned about love from him remained. Tonight it was as if God were showing me it’s time to take what I learned about love from Colin and share it.” Her chest hurt from fear Lane would reject what she was offering.

  Lane’s skates hissed against the ice as he stopped. He gripped her shoulders and looked into her face. “Mantie Clark, are you saying you might be willing to share what you’ve learned about loving with me?”

  She swallowed hard. “If … if you want it.”

  “If I want it?” He caught her in a hug that pushed her hood back on her shoulders. “My dear girl, I assure you I want nothing more.”

  She slid her arms around his neck and laughed softly. “It’s not perfect, you know. Only a ‘wavering image.’ “

  He pulled back just far enough to look into her eyes. “It’s all I have to offer, too.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “You dear girl.” He lifted her about the waist and swung her around. “One more thing.”

  He set her back on her blades, keeping her within his arms. “Anything it’s in my power to give.”

  Mantie’s cheeks heated. “About that apology for your kisses …”

  He chuckled and whispered close to her ear, “May I trade it for more of the same?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  In the moonlight’s golden path, he joyously complied.

  His kiss felt as beautiful and right as the first one. With a little sigh, she leaned against him. He touched his lips to her temple, then kissed her dimple before claiming her lips again. “Blessed Christmas, precious one.”

  A flame leaped within her heart, wavered slightly, then settled into a steady glow. “Blessed Christmas, Lane.”

  The Christmas Necklace

  by Maryn Langer

  Dedication

  With gratitude to the talented writers who helped me in so many ways with this book:

  Pamela G., Patti D., Terry M., Sandy S., Robin H.,

  Michael M., Nicole C., Shirley P., and always, Ken.

  Also thanks to Ray B. and Loraine and Gayla A.

  for giving the Christmas story the right setting.

  To my beloved Savior, Jesus Christ,

  whose birthday this story celebrates,

  for being my Comforter and loving Teacher.

  Now therefore put away … strange gods which are among you, and incline your heart unto the LORD God of Israel.

  JOSHUA 24:23

  Chapter 1

  Chicago—October 8, 1871

  A rumble like the sound of an approaching train rolled through Lucinda Porter’s dream, growing louder and louder until the roar enveloped her. It continued to roar, not lessening, not moving on. Lucinda rolled onto her back and worried herself awake. Trains never sound that loud for this long.

  She jerked off her sleeping mask and sat up, puzzled by the crimson light filtering into her canopied bed. She tore open the brocade bed curtain and stared in disbelief through the wall of windows across the room. Flames licked at bare branches of the ancient sycamore. Black smoke seeped in around the window frame.

  From outside her room came a rattling, a pounding on the door. “Mistress! Mistress!” The lock gave way and Pearl, nanny of her childhood and now beloved personal maid, rushed in with two serving girls. Lucinda bolted out of bed, grabbed a velvet dressing gown, and struggled into it.

  “Hurry, Mistress,” Pearl pleaded. Strong hands rammed satin slippers onto Lucinda’s feet.

  The sycamore exploded into a giant torch of white light. Windows blackened and cracked. Smoke came from everywhere and filled the room. Coughing and with eyes streaming, they stumbled toward the hallway. Blistering heat enveloped the room, and the roar of red-yellow flames swallowed up all other sound.

  Terror muted her, muted them all. They gripped hands to make a human chain and rushed, stumbling, choking, into the hallway. Lucinda, Pearl, and the loyal serving maids staggered half seeing down the grand staircase to the foyer. They stepped onto the marble tile and fumbled their way through the smoke across the foyer, down the back passageway, and out the servants’ entrance into the cool October evening. Lucinda took her first deep breath and stopped. Pearl wrapped her arm around Lucinda’s shoulder and guided her to safety.

  Lucinda twisted about in time to see the home of her childhood, sanctuary in her widowhood, haven after the sudden loss of both parents, and one of the most beautiful houses in Chicago collapse into a great bonfire. She searched for voice to scream her pain but found none. Her lungs burned, her heart hurt, her legs buckled.

  Peoria, Illinois—December 22, 1871

  A heavy hand shook Lucinda. “Lady, wake up,” a weary voice said. “It’s midmorning and train’s about to leave Peoria. You ain’t got a ticket to go beyond.”

  Lucinda Porter jerked awake and blinked up into the furrowed, mocha-colored face of the uniformed conductor. “What? Who?” How dare he speak to me in such a familiar manner.

  “You almost missed your station.”

  Where is Pearl? I can’t miss my station. Why didn’t she wake me? Lucinda shook her head to clear the confusion. Slowly, the heartbreaking reality of Pearl’s leaving settled in again. She had departed two months ago, but Lucinda still couldn’t fully accept that she wasn’t there. Forcing the painful memories back into hiding, she sat up and slid forward on the wooden bench. She pulled her ill-fitting, secondhand coat tightly about her and glanced down at serviceable, over-the-ankle brogans. Impoverished and alone, the finality of her situation sent a chill that rattled her bones.

  During this past week, she had been reduced financially to a class lower than that of the conductor. She felt ill at ease in his presence, but she forced a tremulous smile. “Thank you for your concern. I must have been exhausted to fall asleep so soundly,” she managed to say.

  Apprehension registered in his eyes as he waited.

  “My experiences of the past two months have left me fatigued.” Her words were mumbled, hurried. The conductor raised his eyebrows. “The great Chicago fire destroyed my home and everything in it.”

  Why should he care? Their lives would likely never touch again. Daily he would keep his train on schedule, and she, by early afternoon, would become a kitchen maid at the Tillotson mansion outside Peoria. At least there, though she was not of that world any longer, she would be tucked away in familiar circumstances. She could lick her wounds and try to put her life back together.

  “Ohhh, I see,” the man said. “Mrs. O’Leary’s cow what kicked the bucket burned ya out, so you’ve come to Peoria to spend Christmas with relatives, have you?”

  Lucinda gathered her worn carpetbag and stepped into the aisle. “I have no relatives, here nor anywhere. I’ve come to Peoria as a domestic at Judge Marshall Tillotson’s country estate.” There, you have my pathetic story in one sentence. Hearing her own words forced her to finally accept the hard truth of her new station in life. She couldn’t pretend anymore that this new life was a bad dream and would go away.

  “I’m sorry that you have to go out in the storm. It’s comin’ straight across the prairie. Nary a tree to break the wind.”
Gently, he held her arm and moved her along the aisle and down the steps to the platform. “This storm’s gonna be a real humdinger. You got someone to meet you?”

  She looked up and studied his eyes, his face. He knew little about her situation yet seemed genuinely anxious for her welfare. Amazing. Why should he give me a second thought? It had never occurred to her that, with the exception of Pearl, her servants and others of the serving class truly cared about her comfort and wellbeing. This notion needed some more pondering.

  “I’m sure my transportation to the Tillotsons’ will be along.” At her weak smile, the conductor’s face relaxed somewhat, and he climbed the steps. Over the clanking and grinding of the train into motion, he shouted, “Have a merry Christmas.”

  His well-meant words stabbed her heart. This Christmas would not be merry. No magnificent tree in a foyer that was larger than many homes, no welcoming candles lighting twenty-three sparkling windows. There would be no teas, no balls, no banquets, no Christmas Eve service with her parents in the family pew, no expensive gifts spilling from under a tree whose top star reached the second-story balcony. This Christmas she would not accompany her mother in directing the preparation and delivery of baskets heaped high with food and clothing for the unfortunate.

  A year ago she had become a widow before she reached her twenty-first birthday. Last July she was orphaned, and this December she was left completely without means. Even Pearl was living a pampered life with her wealthy sister while Lucinda had become one of those unfortunates.

  Shivering in the oversized coat and ugly blue and yellow striped cap, she watched the caboose sway off down the tracks. Not until the train became a distant blur did she remember that her small trunk had not been put off. Except for her sweater and nightgown in the carpetbag, everything she owned was in that trunk.

  Her heart lurched, and her hand flew to her chest. Hidden beneath her navy wool dress, the precious antique necklace with flawless emeralds the color of her eyes was still there. It was the first and last Christmas present from her late beloved husband, the seventh earl of Northland. Lucinda pressed her hand against the precious gift and fought back tears, thankful she had fallen asleep wearing it on the night everything burned.

  Hopeful, she looked around the platform. Except for the stationmaster in his little box of an office, the station was deserted. Remembering her new class in life, it dawned on her that a servant of such lowly rank wouldn’t likely have someone waiting to convey her. Those charged with the transport of common serving maids weren’t known to be prompt or polite. Sent on more errands than one, picking up the new kitchen help was probably last on their list before they left for home.

  She crossed the street in front of the station and stood where she would be visible to any passing conveyance. The street corner offered no protection from the wind; gust after gust swept over her, biting through her coat. Shivering, she pulled the collar tighter about her throat and moved back into a warehouse doorway, looking up and down the empty street. At last, the smart clip-clop of horses’ hooves broke the silence.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” Lucinda whispered. A large enclosed sleigh came into view. She rushed into the street where she could more easily be seen. The sleek team drew alongside. The driver gave her nary a glance and raced on, leaving a miniature blizzard behind. Fine snow settled over Lucinda and marked the departure of the only transportation to have traveled that way.

  “They aren’t coming for me.” She wilted against the building, her courage draining. “Maybe they don’t expect me. Maybe I don’t even have a position.” A tear she couldn’t contain slid down her cheek and froze. Lucinda found a clean handkerchief and wiped her nose. “Oh, Pearl, I miss you so. You would know what to do.” It then occurred to Lucinda that she should have asked the stationmaster for advice before she stepped into this freezing, awful wind.

  She limped on numb feet back across the street to the little building and related her situation to the old man. The stationmaster shook his head. “Mistress Tillotson don’t furnish transport coming or going. You get out there the best way you can, and it’s mighty hard to leave once you’re there.”

  “But I’m expected to arrive by early afternoon, or I shan’t have a position. What am I to do?” She blinked back threatening tears.

  “Best I can suggest is you go over to Main Street. Maybe you can catch a ride on a farm wagon. They come along that way all the time. With it being the last Friday before Christmas and a storm coming in, if you hurry, you might find one.”

  Lucinda thanked him. Fighting against a blend of panic and misery at being so helpless, she limped away through the blowing snow toward Main Street.

  Chapter 2

  David Morgan stood in the hall outside the sitting room of Mistress Rosella Tillotson’s townhouse and adjusted his cravat. He removed his mouton Cossack hat and ran a hand along the sides of his blue-black hair in a futile attempt to smooth it. Calling on Mrs. Tillotson before noon probably wasn’t the wisest thing he had done in his life, but time was running out. The Tillotsons were leaving in two weeks for an extended trip to Paris for the winter season.

  I must find the good judge today. Remind the kindly old man to write the referral letter he promised.

  He shucked off his overcoat and knocked with a firm rap on the ornately carved door.

  “A pox on your generations. It’s not yet ten,” called a woman’s voice, deep and gravelly. “Who’s the degenerate cur who can’t tell time?”

  “David. David Morgan, Mistress Tillotson.”

  “David?” Her harsh voice changed to beckoning satin. “Since when have you started knocking?”

  What is that supposed to mean? I always knock.

  “Come in this minute and explain why you’ve been neglecting me, you naughty boy.”

  An unremarkable girl in a gray uniform opened the door. David entered the sitting room and handed her his hat and coat.

  Though professional decorators had tried to create elegance, Rosella’s taste for heavy furniture upholstered with bold textured fabric overpowered the classic objects of art the Tillotsons had collected from around the world.

  Rosella fit with the surroundings perfectly. Society matron of Peoria, wife of renowned Judge Marshall Tillotson, she reclined in a regal pose on an elaborately carved chaise lounge. She was robed in a white satin dressing gown and propped amid plump pillows in burgundy satin cases. Mistress Tillotson laid aside a large hand mirror and smiled a coquettish welcome to David. “Come. Sit and tell me what is happening in the outside world.” She sat up and patted the foot of the burgundy velvet chaise.

  He ignored her command. “I’ve come hoping the judge was here.”

  “I suspect he’s in the country. We are having a Christmas party this evening, you know.” She patted the chaise again.

  He deliberately walked to the fireplace. Nodding toward the newly hired maid hovering in the doorway to the bedroom, he asked, “What happened to Gigi?”

  “Gigi, that ungrateful wench! She ate her way into a waddling, shiftless mountain of fat. Cost me a fortune to keep her in uniforms. Three days ago, without a second’s notice, she up and left. Disappeared. Vanished without a trace.” Rosella’s eyes, an unusual autumn green with gold flecks, glared at him as though this disaster were his fault.

  David shook his head. The woman is impossible. No wonder Judge Tillotson stays away.

  She picked up the mirror and pursed her lips. “What a pity I don’t rouge my lips. I could wipe them clean and add another touch to my invalid’s ruse.” She looked over the top of the mirror at him, eyes twinkling. “Can you not see, David, how very ill I am?”

  He folded his arms. “Why, may I ask, are you playing the invalid?”

  “I must look sick enough to convince Marshall that I am unable to attend that wretched dinner he insists on having in the country this evening.”

  “Why did you agree to have it if you didn’t want to attend? I fail to understand the need for the charade.
There’s a storm predicted for today. And coming in on this particular day, you could just say that you don’t feel well enough emotionally to cope with such an affair.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You remember what day this is?”

  “How could I forget? You’ve reminded me every December twenty-second for the past five years. But you’ve never gone to this extreme to celebrate your grief.”

  Rosella drew back her hand and flung the mirror at the wall. David jumped out of the way of scattering shards that fell like ice crystals onto the oriental carpet. “Mistress Tillotson, throwing things is going too far.”

  She didn’t acknowledge his scolding. “I wonder why Marshall doesn’t remember? Meghan was his daughter, too. The fact is, the way he doted on her sickened me.”

  “Of course he remembers, but he needs friends to help him through the pain.”

  Rosella’s expression softened. “Meghan would have been twenty-two today.” Her voice trembled. “She’s been gone twenty years—a lifetime.” Rosella reached for her linen handkerchief and blotted the tear threatening to streak her powder. “To this day, I cannot believe someone could creep into the house and snatch a sleeping child from her crib without leaving a trace. Not a clue could the Pinkerton detectives find. Two years of searching and they never found how she left Peoria.” Rosella buried her face in the handkerchief.

  David watched the performance and felt a churning start in the pit of his stomach.

  Rosella dabbed around her eyes and snapped her fingers. “Girl, get me another mirror.”

  The maid quickly handed a replacement to Rosella, who ignored David and checked her makeup for damage. David pulled out his pocket watch. The morning was slipping away. “I must—”

  “I’m really glad you dropped by this morning. I’d like for us to have a little visit before lunch.” Rosella stood and walked slowly toward him.