Anth - Mistletoe & Magic

by Mistletoe

  "Mr Critcher!" The woman's voice cracked like a bullwhip. "I shall have to demand that you desist. Daniel, Kate, go outside while I talk to these men."

  The little girl scurried to obey, pulling her clothes beneath the quilt and dressing with all the energy of a squirrel stuffing its cheeks.

  Danny stood his ground, his eyes dark and filled with hate as he glowered first at Critcher, then at Asher.

  "Now," Rose Shanahan repeated, her voice shaking a little. "Put on your coats, and go outside."

  "I don't have a coat," the boy muttered sullenly,

  "Well, then, put on… a thing." She waved a vague, impatient hand. "Something. Put something on. Go find that buffalo coat, and don't come in till I call you. And you, Mr. Critcher, will hold your tongue until my children leave the room."

  She had a kind of authority, Asher decided. Even looking the way she did, wearing an old shabby coat over her nightgown, with her hair like a wild woman's, wrapped like a squaw in a tattered blanket, she had dignity. He liked the way her dark eyes snapped. If she hadn't been a laundry woman, he'd be tempted to fire Critcher and offer her the job of company manager. There weren't many men who would argue with that ring of command in her voice.

  The little girl paused before she followed her brother out the door, and looked back. "Did you see?" she asked softly. "The snow is all pink in the sunrise. It looks… it looks…magicked."

  "Enchanted," corrected her mother, her eyes softening for a moment. "Magicked isn't a word, Kate."

  "It should be," the little girl said happily. "That's what it looks like. But enchanted is nice, too." She pulled the door closed softly behind her.

  "Now, Mrs. Shanahan," Asher began, hoping to soothe her ruffled feathers, "I'm sure that you can understand that George here meant no offense. But thieving is a serious crime."

  "That I know. Thank you for enlightening me. But that gives Mr. Critcher no excuse for speaking of my late husband in that way. Even if it is true. If he'd been half the worker he was a drinker, I'd own this mining company, and probably three others as well. But the children don't remember that, or if they do, they choose to remember what few redeeming worthwhile qualities their father had; and I'll not tarnish those."

  "But surely, Mrs. Shanahan, you can appreciate—"

  "Appreciate what? That you're sending an eleven-year-old boy to jail? No, Mr. Asher, I cannot."

  "But, Mrs. Shanahan—" He was about to protest that he had no intention of doing so, but she gave him no chance.

  "It is indecent, inhumane. My husband died working in your mines, and Danny holds it against you. I'm sorry for what my son did, but you have to understand, he was just trying to help us. You can't expect a child to behave like an adult, nor can you punish him like one. Jail, indeed, Mr. Asher!"

  He figured he'd better get a word in while she drew breath. "Now, really, Mrs.—"

  Too late.

  "And as if I didn't have enough grief, two fatherless children, and working my hands to the bone trying to keep body and soul together, scrubbing the coal dust out of at least thirty pairs of overalls a week— and a dirty lot your miners are, I could tell you—"

  He genuinely hoped she wouldn't.

  "And then getting put out of our home with a scarce two weeks' notice, and in the middle of winter, yet. It shouldn't surprise me if we end up starving in the street for Christmas. And the only worse thing than that would be starving in the street for Christmas with my only son in jail. But merciful lot you'll care—"

  '"Mrs. Shanahan—"

  "—sitting up there in your grand house counting your money like Ebenezer Scrooge himself among the cobwebs, while we wander the streets begging—"

  At what point, he wondered, had he become the villain in a melodrama? Even George was looking at him as if he expected him to twirl his mustache and give a demonic chuckle.

  "Who told you my house had cobwebs?" was all that he could think of to say.

  "Whereas, if you were a reasonable man, you would surely see that justice could be served without destroying what little family I have left. A mother's heart could break, Mr. Asher, just to think of it!"

  She was something, all right. He wondered, as small and pale as she looked, where she found all that breath.

  He was almost feeling bullied. And yet, no woman could look so pitiful, with that heart-shaped face, and the tears standing in those great, dark eyes.

  "For pity's sake, Mr. Asher. For the sake of the Christmas season. Will you allow us to make compensation to you, for the wrong Danny did you?"

  He waited for a moment, but she remained quiet. "I couldn't take your money, ma'am."

  "Oh no. I didn't think, as a gentleman, that you would for a moment."

  "What were you thinking, then?" he asked warily. Behind the glossy tears, he could almost see the crackle of energy in her eyes, and he waited uneasily for her answer.

  "We could work it off"

  "Now, I don't allow women or children in the mine. It's dirty and dangerous—"

  "I agree entirely. But you will need a housekeeper, and, since Mrs. Louis left, and Danny can shovel coal and haul hay and keep those stables as neat as a pin. And little Kate can make herself useful at… something. I'm not sure what. Something, And that house is a disgrace."

  "Says who?"

  "Oh… people." Again that vague little wave of her hand, as if she couldn't be bothered to elaborate. "And I'm sure that the idea is more equitable than putting a widow and her helpless children out into the snow with Christmas coming. Don't you agree?"

  "Well, of course—"

  "Then it's settled!" She extended her hand, the color in her cheeks high, her eyes sparkling with happiness. "Thank you, Mr. Asher. You are a rare and noble gentleman, to allow us to make honest compensation for our family's shameful debt. It is truly gracious of you."

  He didn't feel gracious. He felt as if he'd been run over by a steam train. A very small steam train, but powerful all the same.

  But there was her hand, small and thin and pitifully blistered, held out to him, and he'd be a real cad to refuse it. She looked so proud and poor and brave, standing in the cold puddles of melted coal and ice…

  He shook her hand.

  For a moment, a brief flicker of triumph showed in her eyes, so quickly he was sure he'd imagined it.

  "I thank you, Mr. Asher. And if you would, send the children in on your way out. And don't forget this, please." She picked his gun up from the table, holding it disdainfully between two fingers as if it were contaminated.

  He pocketed it quickly, feeling as if he'd committed some breach of etiquette.

  "Well," he managed. "Well. I suppose if you're going to be working in my house, we should discuss your duties…"

  "I know what to do."

  He was certain of that.

  "Mrs. Shanahan?" He stopped, one hand on the doorknob, and looked at her.

  "Yes, Mr. Asher?"

  "Do you gamble?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Thank God for that. You're a wily adversary."

  Critcher behind him, Asher stepped out into the snow.

  "I still think that—" George began.

  "Don't, George. Don't say one damned word. Go get ny coat from that boy. I need a cigar badly, right now."

  Critcher started to speak, changed his mind, and waddled off to where the boy stood, silent and watchful, leaning against the wall of a neighboring shanty. The little girl stood in the middle of the road, her face turned up to the pale sky. Under the rough gray wool of her knit cap, her face was luminous with pale skin and bright dark eyes, her cheeks glowing a delicate pink.

  He looked up to see what entranced her, but saw only heavy wet flakes, falling from the pearl and gray sky.

  "Do you know what I think?" she said softly, without bothering to glance at him.

  "What do you think?" he asked, with another look upward. There was just cold sky, and snow.

  "I think that when angels write us letters, they thro
w them into the wind. And then, they fall into little pieces and come down as snow." She peered over at him, and then at the snowflakes that had fallen on the deep blue of her sleeve, smiling.

  "But then, how do we read them?" he asked, a little startled by the fancy.

  "Oh, they don't need words. We can just see how beautiful they are. See?" She pointed a small, cold reddened finger at his glove, where a large flake landed. "There's one for you. Who do you think it's from?"

  "I think it's snow," he replied, shaking himself. "Your mother wants you to come in."

  The child smiled at him, her dark brows lifting slightly, with a trace of disbelief. "I think it's a letter," she said, and turned to go. "From an angel who loves you."

  He said nothing, just watched the odd little girl cross the white street.

  He looked up again, trying to remember if he had had such fancies as a child. Letters from an angel who loved him— what odd whimsy.

  Unbidden and vivid, the image of his wife came to him, gone and buried eight years ago. Funny, how the pain of it, while it struck less frequently, was still just as powerful. She had loved the snow. He'd almost forgotten that.

  He stared at the falling flakes, graceful and pure, and for a moment he could almost believe that they were letters from Emily.

  Chapter Three

  "He must be at the mines," Rose said. "But I'm sure he expects us, so we'll let ourselves in. Let's leave the trunk on the porch, Danny, till I catch my breath."

  It had been a long walk from the shanty, the two of them carrying them trunk, trying not to slip in the snow, while Kate tripped along behind, singing happy little songs that came out in white puffs of breath

  Joshua Asher's house stood on the rise of a hill, a good two acres of land cleared around it, right up to the edges of the great pine forests. Beneath the hill, and down the curve of the road, the little town lay quiet and white, smoke from the shanty stovepipes pluming into the sky. The white ribbon of road curved up the hill, past the house and east, over the hill to the mines.

  And, Rose noted with satisfaction, from the broad front veranda she would be able to look directly at her mountain, on a clear day. Today though, she could barely discern the shape through the clouds.

  The porch wrapped around three sides of the house, with four broad steps leading up to the dark front door. Rose knocked again, staring admiringly up at the fan shaped, leaded glass window above, badly in need of washing.

  "From now on," Rose said, "we use the back door, up the kitchen steps. But just for today, we'll use this one. Just to celebrate."

  "Celebrate what?" Danny asked, sullen faced.

  "the fact that you're not in jail, for one; so wipe that look off of your face before I'm tempted to." Her cheerful tone never faltered. "For another, we have a fine, warm house to live in, and probably food to eat like we haven't seen for a few years. We're not walking the streets of the city wondering where we'll sleep tonight. And I haven't killed you yet. Be grateful, Dan."

  She knocked a final time with cold fingers, then put her hand on the colder brass of the handle, and they went in.

  She allowed her plaid shawl to slip to her shoulders, and let out a soft breath of happiness.

  Behind her, Kate gasped audibly.

  Poor little thing, Rose thought. It's the grandest place she's ever seen. One day, she would take her daughter to San Francisco, and St. Louis, and show her the towered, turreted, and gingerbread mansions there, and they would laugh at how Kate had thought this a palace.

  But it was a fine house, to be sure, two stories, an attic, and a full cellar floor. A finer house than Rose had been in for years, except as a laundress, coming to the back door.

  The floors were patterned with simple but elegant designs of dark and light wood, repeating up the wide staircase before her, and left and right, to the dining room and parlor. The rooms were identical in size and space, and thick layers of dust.

  Rose wandered slowly into the parlor, immediately pulling back the dusty wine-colored curtains. Cold winter light illuminated the rug on the floor, the high-backed parlor set of dark red, the dark carved tables, all frosted with dust.

  "Cobwebs," Rose said. "Just as I thought." She shook a lace curtain, and watched the dust motes dance in the gloom. She touched the crystal prisms hanging from the globe of a table lamp. They would be so pretty, sparkling in the glow from the rose-painted globe.

  The children stood in the wide hallway, as if they were afraid to enter.

  "Well," she said briskly. "We certainly have our work cut out for us. Come on, this way. through the dining room."

  They followed her silently, as if they were in church. A brass-and-glass chandelier hung over the long, dark wood table and twelve matching chairs. As in the parlor, the fireplace looked as if it had not been used for some time.

  The stillness in the room was overwhelming.

  "Look," Rose said, her voice sounding almost forced in the silence. "How lovely. I could sit right there in the morning, next to the fire, and drink my tea and look right out the window at my mountain. Wouldn't it be lovely to be rich?"

  She stopped to look at the built-in china hutch, the patterns of the dishes hidden under a layer of dust, and slid open a drawer. Silver, all tarnished. Beautiful forks and spoons of all shapes and sizes, and tiny salt cellars with wee little spoons. Wonderful linens, the lace yellowing from disuse.

  She picked up a napkin ring of darkened silver filigree, and rubbed her thumb over the initials engraved there, a swirling "EA." It must have belonged to his wife. She had heard that years ago he had been married.

  "More work," she said, replacing the napkin ring carefully and closing the drawer with a deliberate bang. Somehow, she felt the need to violate the dusty hush of the house, to make it light and clean and fill it with noise.

  "Come along, you two," she ordered, pushing her way into the serving pantry. There she surveyed the shelves of dishes, towels, bowls, and cups.

  "What is this little door for?" Kate asked, pushing open a little cupboard-like door that looked into the dining room.

  "Ah. That? So that the kitchen servant can hand the food out to the servers, without the grand folk having to see her while they eat."

  "Which kind of servants are we?" Danny asked, peeling out at the silent dining room.

  "Neither. Our own kind. And I don't imagine Mr. Asher bothers with those sorts of doings. They're mostly for rich women, in great cities."

  "Well, I'm not handing him his cup through a little door," Danny said.

  "You will if he asks, though I doubt he will. Look, here's our part of the house. It doesn't appear that he spends much time out there." She pushed the heavy, white-painted door open and walked into the kitchen.

  "How did you know where the kitchen was?" Kate demanded.

  "I should. I've worked in enough houses like this. Bigger, too. Until I met your father. Ladies don't like married women working for them."

  It felt good to be in a nice kitchen again. Even with the windows all around, looking out at the white pastures and frosted forests, it was warm.

  The stove was a marvelous thing, huge and black and shining with nickel trim, two ovens, six stove lids. the coal hod next to it was full to the brim.

  This was obviously the room Joshua Asher spent most of his time in. A pair of boots stood by the back door, a coffee cup stood half full on the kitchen table.

  "Look at the pump. While we're here, we'll never have to go outside for water," Rose said, pointing to the granite sinks, and even Danny was impressed.

  "Why does one man need so many dishes?" he asked, looking at the glass-fronted cupboards and the stacks of blue-and-white china.

  "In case an army comes by to visit," Rose answered, smiling She sank into an oak rocking chair by the stove, and permitted herself a blissful moment of just sitting, enjoying the warmth and the space and the feeling of security. It was ironic. Where would they be now, if Danny hadn't gone out to steal coal?

  "
The Lord works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform," she said softly.

  She opened her eyes, and saw the children standing awkwardly by the table, looking around with awed eyes.

  The child in her stomach rolled heavily, and booted her beneath the ribs. She wondered why babies always woke when you wanted to rest, and slept quietly beneath your heart while you worked. Another mysterious wonder, she supposed.

  "Look. Danny, you bring the trunk to the kitchen, till we find our room. Don't drag it,you'll mark the floors. Take a few minutes to look around, but don't touch anything and don't go into Mr. Asher's room. After, we can work for an hour, and then we'll have something to eat."

  "What will we eat?" Danny asked, looking happy at the prospect. It was good to see him smile.

  "I'll find something. That little staircase there will go upstairs, just like the big one in front. And likely down, as well. That's our staircase. The big one in the hall is for Mr. Asher. Go on, learn your way around."

  Delighted, they clattered off the way they had come, and she shut her eyes again until she heard Kate's voice from the kitchen staircase. "Mama?"

  "You found me. Did you see upstairs?

  The little girl came down the stairs, her worn, high buttoned shoes appearing, then her slight legs and deep blue skirt, and finally, her little face, glowing with excitement, her dark braids swaying as she skipped down the last few steps.

  "Mama, it's the house."

  "What about the house, little lamb?"

  "This is the house the angel told me about."

  "Oh, Kate. It's just a house."

  "No, Mama. It's the house. See? There's your fine kitchen, and your rocking chair. And upstairs, my very room with flowers on the walls. And the bed is so lovely."

  "I thought I told you not to touch things," Rose said. Really, how silly to feel that little chill of nervousness.

  "It's all right. She said I might. It's our Christmas, Mama."

  Troubled, Rose looked at Kate's shining eyes.

  "Wee Kate, you know that it's just pretend, don't you? There are no angels here. This is just a dusty house that wants cleaning There are no angels."