Carla Kelly's Christmas Collection

by Carla Kelly

  She fell in beside him as he started toward the monastery, and the dogs began to bark. “You can trust me,” she said on impulse.

  “I know that,” was all he said.

  He jangled the bell and Sarah jumped in spite of herself. The tinny little sound seemed to trumpet their arrival. She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders and waited for the French to leap out of their hiding places, screeching and yelling as before.

  “Good evening, my son.”

  It was an old priest, his face a map of lines and crevasses. He peered closer at Sarah. “And to you, my daughter.”

  “Are there French about?” the colonel asked, moving closer to the half-open gate and pulling Sarah with him.

  The priest looked about him elaborately and winked.

  “They have come… and gone.” He put his finger to his lips. “But not far. Come inside.”

  Silent, a black crow among the pale walls, the priest led them into the refectory. Other priests—none looked younger than Methuselah—huddled close to the fireplace. Other than a glance in their general direction, no one marked their arrival.

  “Is there something to eat?” Sotomayor asked, his voice hushed.

  “Be patient, my son. Sit down,” said the priest, who motioned to a bench far from the fitful warmth of the fireplace and left them.

  Time passed. Sarah shivered and pulled her cloak closer. Sotomayor went to the door through which the old cleric had vanished. He stood there, looking for a long moment and then stepped aside for the priest, who carried two bowls of gruel.

  The fragrance of the cooked wheat tore at Sarah’s insides. She smiled up at the priest and took the spoon he offered her. She was acutely conscious of eyes watching her. The other priests stared at the two bowls on the table.

  Sarah glanced up at the colonel, who still stood in the doorway. “For heaven’s sake, sit down and eat before the old man changes his mind,” she declared, her voice louder and more strident than she wished.

  Instead, the colonel came to the table and held out his hand for her. “I am sure you would be pleased to wash your hands.”

  Not really, she thought, her mind crowded with wheat that smelled more divine than a brace of roast pheasant. She sighed, took his hand, and let him pull her toward the kitchen.

  Sarah stood still on the threshold. Four children stared up at her, children small and dwarfed by clothes rendered too large by hunger. No one moved. No one cried.

  Sotomayor was careful not to look at her. “This is why the priests are not eating,” he said. “Here is the washbasin, lady.”

  She made no move to wash her hands. Her stomach growled, and suddenly she was ashamed.

  “Christ declared that the poor are with us always,” said the priest behind her, “even in this time of His birth, my lady.”

  Sarah nodded, her eyes on a small girl, scarcely more than a baby, who stared at her out of grown-up eyes and leaned against an older girl.

  “Have they anything to eat?” she asked when she could find her voice.

  The priest shrugged. “The Lord provides.”

  Sarah put her hands on her hips in unconscious imitation of the colonel and then went back into the refectory. She gathered up the bowls and returned them to the kitchen, sitting on the floor and drawing the child onto her lap. She patted the floor beside her and the older girl sat.

  Sarah handed the spoon to the older girl. “If you feed her a bite and take two yourself, that will be fair,” she said.

  Without a word, the child took the spoon in fingers that trembled, and fed her sister, who opened her mouth like a fledgling bird. Sarah cuddled the little one close and then looked up at Sotomayor.

  “Well, Colonel, there are two other children. And didn’t you say a while back that hunger was the best sauce?”

  The ghost of a smile flickered across his lean face.

  “I did.”

  She nodded. “And I suppose you have that other piece of marzipan in your pocket.”

  “I do. It will divide nicely into four parts, and we will sniff the wrapper.”

  Sarah laughed and the little girl turned around, startled. Sarah’s smile died on her lips as tears filled her eyes. “Oh, little one, have you never heard anyone laugh?” she whispered into the child’s curls. “How long has this war been going on?”

  And why was I never aware of it, back in England? she thought as she watched the colonel portion out the gruel among the other children and then divide the marzipan. She thought of the food she used to push around on her plate, the courses she ordered back to the kitchen because the garnish was not just so, or the meal slightly overdone.

  Soon the gruel was just a memory. The child on her lap licked the spoon clean and then leaned back against Sarah with a sigh. It was a sound that went straight to Sarah’s heart, and she sobbed out loud. Quickly Colonel Sotomayor took the little girl off her lap and tucked the child in the crook of his arm, singing to her, walking her close to the kitchen fire, which burned lower and lower.

  Sarah wiped her eyes and got to her feet. She shook her reticule and was less than satisfied. She sighed and reached into it anyway, avoiding the colonel’s eyes. She handed a coin to the priest, and it disappeared up his sleeve.

  “You cannot always trust the Lord to provide, Father, especially in time of war, when so many others require His assistance,” she explained, her voice low.

  He nodded, bowed, and handed her a cup of hot water with a single potato peel in it. “Excellent for the digestion, my lady.”

  Sarah sipped the hot water without a murmur. With a smile, the colonel began to hum again and rock the child in his arms. Soon the girl slept, the spoon still tight in her hand.

  Sarah came closer to the colonel. “She is asleep now, Colonel Sotomayor,” she said. “You can put her down.”

  He nodded. He fingered the little one’s curls, but his eyes were far away. He made no move to put down the child, but cradled her closer to his chest.

  Is it Mariana or Elena that you are thinking of, Colonel? Sarah thought as she watched him with his small burden. She sat where she was on the floor and drank the rest of the hot water.

  Suddenly she was in a pelting hurry to be off, to drag the colonel out the door and walk and walk until she could see the battlements of Lisbon. I will whine and cry and chivvy Wellington until he picks me up and tosses me on board the next frigate, man-of-war, or garbage scow bound for Portsmouth. And I will never, ever leave England again.

  The older girl tugged on the colonel’s sleeve finally, recalling him to the moment, and he stopped pacing the floor with the sleeping child. She held out her arms, and Sotomayor surrendered the baby. The priest shepherded the children out of the kitchen.

  The colonel watched them go and then sank down against the wall on the floor beside Sarah. He closed his eyes and was asleep before she could complain. All her hasty words stopped in her throat as she looked at his face, as tense in sleep as it was when he was awake, the frown line between his eyes deeply etched. She went to the table to retrieve his cloak and bumped into a stool. At the slight noise, Sotomayor’s eyes popped open and his hand went to his sword.

  Sarah gathered up his cloak and put her finger to her lips. “Shh, Colonel,” was all she said. She covered him with his cloak and he closed his eyes again. Without thinking, she touched his hair, smoothing it down, and then ran her finger lightly over the line between his eyes.

  When she was satisfied that he would sleep, Sarah sat down next to him again. The little light from the fireplace gave off no heat, and as she watched, the embers winked out until the room was dark.

  Sarah touched the leather pouch with the Columbus papers, the parchment crackling in her fingers. Sotomayor twitched in his sleep, but did not waken. The leather ties tugged at the skin on her neck, but she did not pull the pouch from its hiding place.

  There was no comfortable place on the rough flagstones of the kitchen floor. After a moment of serious thought, Sarah scooted closer to
the colonel and rested her head on his legs. He tensed, sat up from the wall, patted her hair, and then leaned back against the wall again. Soon he was breathing evenly.

  The room was still dark when Sarah woke. A priest knelt by the fireplace like a Muslim facing Mecca, trying to breathe some life into the coals. He blew and coughed and wiped his ash-filled eyes, then blew again patiently until the coal glowed again. In another moment Sarah heard the crackle of the fire and felt the colonel tense and then waken.

  Sotomayor stared at her, as if willing his mind to register who she was and where they were. He looked no more rested than when he had closed his eyes the night before.

  The priest rose from his obeisance to the fire. “Dios los bendiga, my son,” he said. “We have been watching the cut to the southwest where the French were camped. They have left. It would be good if you would do the same, you and your lady.”

  “Have we outstayed our welcome already?” Sarah burst out, stung by the priest’s unctuous tone. “Can’t you see that the colonel is tired?”

  The priest bowed and smiled. If anything, his tone was more intractable. “My good lady, we have had enough of soldiers in this valley.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but the colonel took her by the arm in a grip surprisingly strong, and pushed her in front of him to the doorway. “But aren’t we on his side?” she whispered to Sotomayor as the colonel hurried her along.

  “Lady, I don’t press my luck,” he hissed back.

  “But…”

  The colonel set his lips in a tight line and did not relinquish his grip, even though he slowed down. “Oh, how can I explain it? They have all been at war too long. I am not sure we are on anyone’s side, as you put it. We are only more trouble.”

  “I refuse to accept that for an answer,” Sarah stormed. She stamped her foot, furious with this stubborn man and all those countrymen of his who had raised intrigue to such a fine art. “I’ll have you know I am an Englishwoman, and we expect answers that make more sense.”

  He stopped in his tracks and threw up his arms. “I don’t care if you are that antipope of Canterbury. It’s the only answer I have. Now quit nagging me.”

  Sarah stared at him. To her horror, tears pooled in her brown eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She dabbed at her cheeks and sobbed, “I don’t understand you Spaniards. You’re not at all like the English.”

  Colonel Sotomayor shook his head, but there was a smile in his eyes. He held out his arms and she walked into them. He hugged her close, rocking her back and forth, until she felt like the little child in the kitchen last night. She sobbed into his shoulder in good earnest.

  “Maybe if you spent less time in dusty archives, you would get to know us,” he said at last. “No, we’re not like the English. Is that so bad?”

  She dried her eyes and blew her nose on Sotomayor’s handkerchief she had appropriated yesterday. “I didn’t mean it to sound so rude,” she said.

  He held her away from him by the shoulders. “I know this is difficult.” He put his arm around her shoulder and walked her across the courtyard to the stable. “I wasn’t going to tell you. Those children. They saw their parents cut down because they hid a British soldier. Some fool that wandered away from Wellington’s army.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Yes. You see, we are only more trouble.”

  She nodded and sat down on the empty manger as the colonel saddled his horse. The animal nosed the manger and bumped her hip, searching for oats. There was nothing. Sarah sighed and went back into the monastery.

  The children were sleeping in the refectory, jumbled together like spoons in a drawer. The air was so cold that Sarah could see her breath. She knelt by the older girl, who clutched her little sister to her, her grip tense even in sleep. Sarah watched them a moment, her resolution wavering.

  “And now you must rely on the kindness of strangers, even as I? Ah, me,” she said.

  She looked around her. She heard the priests down the hall in the chapel, singing some out-of-tune morning hymn. Quickly she took the last coin from her reticule and placed it in the girl’s free hand, curling her fingers around it.

  Sarah patted the little one’s head and smiled as the child nestled closer to her sister. Sarah touched the older girl, careful not to wake her. “You look resourceful, my dear,” the Englishwoman whispered. “Make it last as long as you can.” Sarah drew her cloak tight around her again and tiptoed from the dining hall.

  The horse was saddled. Colonel Sotomayor gave the cinch another tug and turned to her. “We can get very close to the border this day,” he said. “Excuse me a moment.” He went back into the building.

  Sarah shivered as the wind teased her skirts. Was it two days to Christmas? Was it one day? Had Christmas come and gone and left her still cold, still hungry, still in want? She rubbed her arms against a deeper chill. In all the days of trial since James’ death, she had never felt quite so powerless.

  It was an unwelcome emotion. She thought back to the only time in her life she had been hungry before, and it was the occasion of a horse ride through the Kentish countryside that went on much longer than she had anticipated. Even as her stomach had growled, she knew that at the end of the ride there would be food, and people to make a commotion over her. On the Spanish high plains, there was nothing like that. No one cared that she was hungry, or cold, or frightened.

  She managed a crooked smile. Maybe that is why these people are such realists, she thought. They don’t fool themselves. In another moment she was embarrassed at her harsh words to the colonel, at her childish behavior. Goodness, I haven’t stamped my feet since I was in the nursery. Her cheeks flamed and she felt the most acute sort of misery, followed by a savage resolve to never be so foolish in front of Colonel Sotomayor.

  She touched the front of her dress, feeling the outline of the leather bag. James, I will get this to Oxford. I will. The tears came back. It is my only Christmas gift of any value this year.

  And there was the colonel in the arched doorway, pulling on his gloves. Sarah sighed, feeling immensely calmed to see him there. She smiled her biggest smile at him, the one that set the lights dancing in her eyes, the smile she usually saved for Almack’s.

  Surprised, the colonel smiled back. “You English are peculiar,” was all he said as they hurried into the courtyard.

  She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Maybe if you would spend less time in dusty marches, you would get to know us.” She lowered her head then, unable to look at him. “And I do apologize for my silliness.”

  He grinned at her and touched his forehead in salute. “Muy bien. I have already forgotten it.”

  He looked closer at her, his eyes troubled. “What is the problem, my heart?” he asked, the endearment out of his mouth unaware.

  “I am afraid,” she replied quietly, wondering if she had heard him right, then certain she had not. “Just… afraid.”

  The colonel took her by the hand and kissed her fingers. “I understand,” he said, his voice as soft as hers. “I would infinitely prefer to be riding among my orange trees, with a little one in front of me in the saddle, helping me with the reins and ordering me about.” He paused, and the memory filled his face. He squeezed her hand tight. “But Spain has need of me now.”

  “Are you never afraid?” she asked.

  “All the time. It is this way, Lady Sarah. When there is no choice, it’s better to be brave.”

  He kissed her cheek quickly. “Let us leave this place. Now what are you staring at?”

  “Colonel, you left your cloak in the refectory. I know you had it a moment ago.”

  He could not ignore her pointed scrutiny. A flush rose to his cheeks. “I thought I would help the Lord provide a little, too, as you put it, and the boys looked so cold. Now, are we going to leave this place or not?”

  Sarah already knew better than to remark upon the colonel’s philanthropy. Instead, she unfastened her cloak and handed it to him. “If you insist upon being Fath
er Christmas—goodness, do Spanish children have Father Christmas?—then you had better take my cape and let me ride in front. That way, you can wrap it around both of us. I still have James’ shirt, and it is quite warm.”

  He took the cloak, fastened it on, and lifted her into the saddle, swinging up behind her. He took the reins from the pommel and tucked his elbows in close to her sides. “Very well, Lady Sarah. I will not argue. And do you remember, Father Christmas does not come to Spain. There are the Three Kings on the sixth of January that children here look for.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. “I tucked that coin under the edge of her skirt. She will still find it, and better yet, the priest will not. Was that the last of your money?”

  Sarah shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You said we are close to the Portuguese border. The British army will feed me across Portugal to the sea. When I get to Lisbon, it’s a simple matter to make an arrangement with a solicitor there on Papa’s bank.” She touched her earrings. “If worse comes to worst, I have these. We’ll get by.”

  They rode into the early-morning fog, picking their way slowly along the stony path that led from the barren valley behind them to another barren valley before them. The colonel reined in his horse and rose up slightly in the saddle, looking over Sarah’s head.

  “See here,” he said at last, pointing into the far distance. “I think it is the French. Well, they have not found us yet, and I have another path to try, once we leave this place.”

  He settled back down and put one arm around her waist as they began the steep descent. In another moment, his fingers rested against the leather bag that was outlined more distinctly under her habit. He moved his thumb across the pouch.

  “Lady Sarah, what is that?” he asked finally. “I am rude to ask, but I am also curious.”

  “You needn’t prod,” she said briskly, and his hand left her waist.

  Sarah tugged on the strings and pulled out the pouch.

  She spread out the closely written pages in front of the colonel’s eyes and told him about their remarkable find in the Salamanca archives.

  “You see, sir, everyone has assumed for years and years that any papers of Columbus would be in the Cadiz archives, or at Simancas.” Her voice warmed to her subject. “James had an inkling about the Salamanca archives and he arranged for a friend to check his hunch. Here it is.” Her voice grew doubtful then. “We stayed behind to copy it all.”