A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Judd looked ready to challenge the girl’s sass, but Billy took the book from his hands, rather than let the fine mood be shattered by a confrontation. He scanned the fine print until he found the place.

  “The Gospel of Luke, chapter two,” he began in a solemn little voice. “ ‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. And . . . Joseph also went up from the city of Galilea . . .’ ”

  The quiet pride on Judd’s face stirred Mercy. She sat absolutely still, letting Billy’s raspy, sometimes halting rendition touch her as the familiar story unfolded once again. The lamp brought out highlights in his hair that would almost pass for a halo, and she smiled at this notion.

  “ ‘. . . And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. . . .’ ”

  Mercy certainly understood that part, for as she glanced at Christine, those letters seemed to smolder in her pocket. The girl felt lonely for her mother, upset because Billy was the only kin she had left to celebrate Christmas with. Mercy vividly recalled her first holiday in this log house, away from those she loved, and her heart went out to these children. If she were to give the letters to Christine later, would they mend the hole in her heart?

  “ ‘. . . And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host’ ”—Billy’s voice rose with excitement—“ ‘praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, and goodwill toward men. . . .’ ”

  Peace and goodwill. Hallmarks of this holy season; a reminder to all of them what their calling should be. But how could she bring this about? Aunt Agatha sat silently, mouthing the verses along with Billy, satisfied that she’d done the right thing by keeping those letters from Christine. The last thing Mercy wanted was to defy this woman’s wisdom, and yet . . .

  “ ‘. . . But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.’ ” Billy looked at them with a beatific smile only a freckle-faced boy could muster.

  Judd stood up and hugged him. “That was a fine job, son. You read in a way that renewed us all, and shed new light on a favorite old story.”

  Mary had the right idea, Mercy realized as they all said their good nights a little later. Until the right time and the right words came to her, she would keep Christine’s letters and her thoughts to herself. A matter like this required some pondering, so the still, small voice of God could tell her when His purpose would best be accomplished.

  She hoped it would happen during this Christmas visit.

  As Billy held the lopsided cedar tree steady inside a bucket, Judd dropped in the last of the small rocks that would hold it upright. He poured in some water, and then they stood back to admire their work.

  “It’s not much, compared to the grand fir trees we decorated in Philadelphia,” Mercy remarked wistfully, “but it’ll give this room some Christmas spirit—and give us a place to put presents.”

  A fire crackled in the fireplace, popcorn lifted the lid of the long-handled skillet Aunt Agatha held, and they could see light, powdery snow through the window. Christmas Eve at last. Christine sat stringing the puffy popped kernels with cranberries they’d brought from St. Louis, while Mercy unpacked the corn-husk angels and crocheted snowflakes she’d made in years past, and the box of glass ornaments that had survived their trek west. Billy was sticking needle and thread through sugar cookies shaped like holly leaves, candles, and stars—although he was eating almost as many as he managed to hang on the tree.

  Mercy knew the true reason for the season, yet she still got as giddy as a girl awaiting Santa when they placed their presents beneath the tree. Some were large and bulky, some were small and neat. Some had simple wrappings of fabric or flour sacking, while a few glistened with printed paper and pretty ribbons. And some were for her!

  When she looked into Billy’s eyes—for where else would the season’s excitement be shining as brightly?—she saw a forlorn pain that tore at her heart. It was a rude reminder that for the Bristol children, the angels’ proclamation of peace on earth and goodwill toward men rang false this year.

  Mercy sat down on the floor beside the cross-legged little boy. “It’s just not the same, is it? No matter how much you believe in the Bible stories you’ve read us these past evenings, they don’t fill in the blanks where your parents and Wesley used to be,” she sympathized. “Would a cup of chocolate help? Or singing some carols?”

  Christine let out a mirthless chuckle. “You’ve obviously never heard Billy sing. He’d need more than that bucket the tree’s in, to carry a tune.”

  “Would not, Miss Smarty Britches!” he shot back.

  “Would, too, Mr. Patchy Pants!”

  “Would—”

  “It’s time for Jesus to arrive,” Judd’s voice cut through their squabbling. He carefully removed the crinkled tissue paper that had preserved this little figurine for all the years and miles they’d had it.

  Once the porcelain baby with the chipped toes and faded halo looked out at them from his manger of painted hay, the scene was complete—in that stable, and in the house itself. And with that completion came some semblance of peace in the front room, and goodwill between siblings. At least for the moment.

  Then Billy leaned heavily against her. “Mercy, it just ain’t right that there’s presents under that tree for me, when I’ve got nothin’ to give—”

  “Oh, how can you say that?” Her heart thumped hard at the utter dejection in his voice. “You’ve read our Scripture these past few nights, and you’ve helped us in so many ways since you’ve been here.”

  “And you’ve certainly made me smile, young man,” Aunt Agatha chimed in. “The best gifts don’t come wrapped in—”

  “I know all that, dang it!” Billy sprang up with the poignant grace of a boy who understood adult realities yet yearned for the sweet beliefs of his childhood. “But I’ve watched ever’body else stealin’ away to finish the things they’ve been makin’, smilin’ ’cause they can’t wait to see how the others’ll like their presents. And I ain’t done none of that!

  “I’m sorry to be such a killjoy, ’cause you’re doin’ your dangedest to make things extra nice,” he added, backing toward the kitchen, “but Wesley had it right that Christmas he told me there ain’t no Santy Claus.”

  He was out the back door before any of them knew what to say.

  Asa rose from where he’d been sipping his sassafras tea. “I’ll talk to him, Miss Mercy. Nobody knows the trouble that boy’s seen, and nothin’ but time and love can make it go any better for him.”

  Time and love. As Mercy let down her hair and the house settled into silence around them, the tears she’d held back finally dribbled down her cheeks. “I didn’t know what to say, Judd,” she whispered. “We should’ve had better answers tonight—”

  “Nobody can know all the answers, honey.”

  “—and we should’ve anticipated this! Should’ve known he’d be too shy—or too proud—to ask for our help in making gifts.”

  Judd’s chuckle rumbled in the darkness as he cuddled up to her. “Now, if you were Billy, would you want the folks who took you in to find out what you were giving them?”

  “Surely each of his parents helped make the other’s gift—”

  “But they’re not here now.” Judd’s sigh feathered the hair at the nape of her neck. “I feel bad about this, too, Mercy. But we’re too late to make amends. We have to trust that God’ll work things out. A little help from Santa wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mercy awoke and sat straight up. Had she left a candle burning in the front room, too close to the tree? Had the wind blown down the chimney, to send that heavy aroma of half-burned buffalo chips into the house? She threw aside the curtain that closed off their little room and stumbled toward the kitchen.

  “Don’tcha be bargin’ in here, now!” a boyish voice ordered. Billy blocked the doorway
, his eyes sparkling with a challenge. “Me ’n’ Asa’re cookin’ up your Christmas presents! Now be a good little girl and git back in bed, or Santa won’t come for nobody. You don’t want him to leave a big ole lump of buffalo dung in your stockin’, do ya?”

  A wild giggle bubbled up inside her. Mercy clapped her hand over her mouth, shaking with the night’s chill and sheer childlike joy. The change in Billy was a Christmas miracle, and as she sent her thanks to that baby in the manger, she vowed to see that the Santa with the chocolate skin and heart of gold knew she appreciated him, too.

  She slipped back into bed, straining to hear those secretive sounds above Judd’s deep, even breathing. Billy and Asa were as quiet as midnight snowfall in there: an occasional rattle of a pan . . . stealthy footsteps, and then whispering in the front room over by the fireplace . . . the muffled clatter of—plates and silverware being set out? She certainly recognized that sound, but why—?

  The scents of warm sugar and cinnamon drifted from the kitchen. Bacon sizzled and popped. And then everything got very, very quiet.

  Sheer curiosity had her wiggling out of Judd’s embrace. By the light of her bedside candle, Mercy slipped into the red calico dress she’d kept clean for today, and tied her hair back with a twisted length of red and green ribbon.

  Footsteps above told her Aunt Agatha was awake, and when she stepped out into the front room, Nathaniel was lighting the lamps. He’d gotten the fire going, and the flames crackled happily in greeting.

  “Merry Christmas, missus,” the burly hand said with a big grin. “Hope you don’t mind us three cookin’ up a little magic so early this mornin’.”

  “The look on Billy’s face has already been my favorite gift, Nathaniel. Merry Christmas! And thank you so much for helping our boy.”

  And here he came, grinning broadly over a platter of bacon and ham, which he placed in the center of the table they’d set. She opened her arms and he rushed into them. It was an embrace to savor, even though she suspected he had his mama in mind as he clung to her.

  “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she whispered. When she opened her eyes, she found they were being watched by the two who’d slipped downstairs. “And Merry Christmas, Christine and Aunt Agatha! We’re so glad you’re here to celebrate with us.”

  Asa set a large plate of raisin biscuits beside the meat platter, while Nathaniel brought out a bowl of stewed apples spicy with cinnamon, and a pitcher of steaming mulled cider.

  Judd stepped from behind the curtain, smiling. “Looks like we’d better enjoy this fine feast while it’s hot. Santa’s helpers must’ve worked through the night to get it all ready.”

  “It was Billy’s idea, and we were pleased to help,” Asa replied happily. “And on this special Christmas mornin’, I’d like to offer thanks.”

  They stood behind the benches with bowed heads as the old Negro began. “Dear Lord, we ask Your blessin’ on this food and Your special blessin’ on the children in our home this day. For it was Your child who came to save us all. Help us to be Your angels on this earth until we earn our wings in Your heavenly multitude. Amen.”

  Aunt Agatha poured hot cider for everyone from the end of the table, looking regal in her cherry-red dress. “What a joy to be with you all on Christmas Day,” she chirped, handing around the cups on their saucers. “I’ve spent many a holiday with those unfortunate girls who couldn’t get home. It’s also a pleasure to give presents,” she added with a chuckle. “I hope I’ve chosen well.”

  Mercy’s heart swelled as the Bristol children opened their gifts from Aunt Agatha first. Billy lit up over a book of Edgar Allan Poe stories and two adventures by Jules Verne. His sister’s eyes widened with delight at a pair of white gloves trimmed in seed pearls, and two Harper’s Bazaar catalogs of dress designs.

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Vanderbilt!” Christine breathed. “These are the very latest fashions!”

  “And well you deserve them,” her headmistress said with an approving nod. “The other girls didn’t receive any gifts, however, so you’d best not mention these. But then, no one else had the vision or the pluck to create a new school uniform. The yard goods for those should arrive in a few weeks, and you may begin making them as soon as you wish, Christine.”

  The girl looked happier than Mercy had ever seen her, flipping the pages of her magazine as she envisioned the finery she would sew for herself.

  Her brother elbowed her. “Thought she was an old battle-ax,” he murmured.

  Christine’s glare could’ve scorched his shirt. “I don’t know where you heard that,” she muttered, “but I’ll thank you to keep your mouth—”

  “Well, would you look at this!” Judd exclaimed over their whispered bickering. “A fine new hat. Thank you, Aunt Agatha.”

  “And—oh, my word, I—” Mercy stood up to unfold the contents of her large, bulky box. The scarlet brocaded skirt and matching jacket rustled with the seduction of stylish new clothes—sweet music to her ears. She had no idea where she’d wear such finery, but she gazed at her aunt in gratitude. “It’s gorgeous, Aunt Agatha! You really shouldn’t have—”

  “Why not?” The little spinster beamed. “While the ‘make over and make do’ philosophy will get us through these difficult times, I wanted you to have something stylish to replace those gowns you gave Christine. One of these days, you’ll have the occasion to wear it.”

  Still grinning, Mercy fetched the other bulky gift from under the tree. “For you, Christine. Sometimes ‘making do’ is also making new.”

  Her pulse pounded. She’d warned herself this girl of thirteen might turn her fine nose up at the flour-sack wrapping, even before she considered all the hours and love that had gone into the gift inside.

  And indeed, Miss Bristol returned to her guarded, sullen self as she untied the yarn Mercy had used for ribbons. Christine stood up to let the bulky quilt unroll, while Billy hopped up to help her.

  “I watched her makin’ this!” he crowed. “An’ look, Sis! There’s pieces from them dresses Mama wore, and the ones Mercy gave ya. And danged if those brown and blue strips ain’t made from my old shirt and britches, and some of Judd’s.”

  Mercy spoke cautiously, hoping she wouldn’t embarrass or further alienate the girl. “I know our home can’t replace the fine one you grew up in, Christine—just as Judd and I will never be the parents you’re missing right now. But I chose the Log Cabin pattern, hoping that years from now—when you’ve grown up and moved on—you’ll have fonder thoughts of your time here with us.”

  “And aren’t these sturdy, masculine fabrics the perfect complement to those silks and satins?” Aunt Agatha came over to get a closer look, running an admiring finger over the rectangular pieces that joined at right angles. “What a lovely symbol of the patchwork family you’ve become. As practical as denim, and as pretty as silk.”

  “High praise indeed, from the headmistress who used to rip out my messy quilting stitches,” Mercy quipped. That her starchy, unmarried aunt had discovered the quilt’s intended meaning touched her more than she wanted to let on, with the bristling Miss Bristol looking on. “It seems your lessons about doing my best have carried over into other areas, Aunt Agatha. And you’ve been a tremendous help to Christine in a very short time. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you both so very much.”

  Christine’s sarcastic words sent Mercy’s joy flying like snowflakes before the north wind. The girl rolled the quilt into a lump and laid it on the end of the table. Then she snatched a box from beneath the tree and shoved it toward Mercy. “I believe these are yours.”

  Without another word, the girl hurried from the room. Billy scowled and got up to follow his sister, but Judd put a hand on his shoulder.

  “She’s having a hard time of it today, son. Let’s—”

  “She’s got no call to get snippy, after Mercy worked so hard on this quilt,” the boy retorted. He looked ready to cry—or cuss—as his face turned pink with agitation. “Mama
would never’ve made her nothin’ that took so much time! She’d’ve just bought some frilly girl-thing uptown, and Christine would’ve swooned over it from here to Kingdom Come.”

  His insight made a single tear slip down Mercy’s cheek. “Thank you for understanding that, Billy. But I suspected she might react this way. It’s all right. Really it is.”

  She focused on the gift she was unwrapping, trying desperately to remain positive; remembering the true meaning of Christmas Day, rather than letting her sharp disappointment ruin her holiday spirit. “Besides, this gift your sister wrapped is the prettiest one under the tree. She must think enough of me—of Judd and me both—to at least offer us something.”

  She lifted the lid of the box and nipped her lip. “Monogrammed napkins, Judd. A set of twelve.”

  “It was my suggestion, but she bought the linen and embroidered them herself,” Aunt Agatha said quietly. “After the way she ran off with the ones Mother made, I thought them a fitting gift.”

  So why didn’t Mercy feel better about them? Because she knew Christine had been prompted?

  Mercy ran her finger along the top napkin’s smooth, satin-stitched M, wishing this gift were more about peace and goodwill than payment and guilt. Small comfort that Judd seemed so pleased with the new pants and shirts she’d made him, and that Billy was ecstatic to receive new clothes just like them. Asa and Nathaniel were grateful for new union-suit underwear, and Aunt Agatha exclaimed over the table runner of fine filet crochet she’d made.

  Billy’s squeal made them all look up.

  He was holding a carved wooden horse, posed in a proud stance—a replica of the Morgans he tended every day. “You made this, didn’tcha?” he quizzed Judd. “I’ve seen you whittlin’ on—”

  “That’s just the first part of your present, son.”

  The big man in the butternut shirt and blue denim pants leaned forward, his eyes ablaze with such love that Billy gazed back at him, entranced. The room fell silent around them.