“When did you see my pantry?” I asked, mystified.
“The other day, when you were off in Oxford,” Sally replied. “I closed the tea shop and came out here to lend William a hand. You don’t think I’d leave him to look after the twins on his own, do you?”
I shot a glance at my father-in-law, who was innocently employing a nutcracker over a mound of filberts, and thought, You sneaky devil. I’d often wondered how he managed to look so dapper after a day with Will and Rob. Now I knew.
“Where are my boys?” I shouted above the dining room’s din.
“In here, Lori,” called a voice from the hallway.
“Francesca?” I dropped the wedge of fruitcake on the table and fought my way to the hall. “Is that you?”
“Adrian seems to think so,” my nanny replied.
“I’m sure of it,” added her fiancé. “Francesca couldn’t possibly be anyone but herself.”
I gazed in jubilation at the pair, who were holding a twin apiece, and tried to seize both of my sons at once, putting a severe strain on my back muscles as well as the boys’ patience. Will and Rob were happy to see their long-lost mummy, but not happy enough to put up with being crushed.
“When did you get back from Italy?” I asked, letting Will return to Adrian’s arms.
“Yesterday afternoon, before the snowstorm hit,” said Adrian. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. “When we got here we found Sally Pyne waiting on William hand and foot, while two other local widows were in the kitchen, feeding your sons and ransacking your scullery.”
“Three widows at his beck and call,” I muttered. “The sly old fox.”
“Lori,” Emma said excitedly, grabbing me by the arm. “I’ve finished the computer search on the military decorations. You won’t believe the name that came up.”
“Yes, Emma, I will.” I handed Rob back to Francesca and pulled Emma aside, but before I could tell her about my journey to London, someone took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and planted a hearty kiss directly on my lips.
“G-Gerald,” I managed, somewhat breathlessly, falling back a step to gaze up at Bill’s devastatingly handsome English cousin.
“Merry Christmas, Lori,” said Gerald, grinning broadly. “Kind of you to be so generous with the mistletoe. Lucy and I have been putting it to good use.”
“Marriage suits you,” I said, my lips still tingling. “Where is Lucy, anyway?”
“In the living room, keeping an eye on Uncle Willis-ton,” Gerald told me.
“Uncle Williston’s here?” I said, clapping my hands in delight. Uncle Williston was the most eccentric member of the Willis clan by a factor beyond calculation. “What’s he wearing?”
“See for yourself.” Gerald stood aside and motioned for me to proceed him into the living room.
The living room was as congested as the dining room, but Uncle Williston stood out in any crowd. He occupied Bill’s favorite armchair, splendidly arrayed in a green brocade tailcoat, green satin breeches, white stockings, and gold-buckled, square-toed shoes. Nell Harris sat on a footstool beside him, with Bertie on her knee, surveying Uncle Williston’s lacy shirtfront with a look of profound satisfaction.
To one side of the hearth stood Luke Boswell, his thumbs hooked in a pair of neon-red suspenders, and Stan Finderman, red-faced and quaffing a cup of punch. Stan had no trouble making himself heard above the clamor: the subject of their animated discussion was, predictably, rare books.
Everywhere I looked, I saw familiar faces: Theodore and Lilian Bunting, Chris and Dick Peacock, Peggy Kitchen and Jasper Taxman, George Wetherhead and Able Farnham, Mr. Barlow and Miranda Morrow, the Hodges and the Pyms, talking, laughing, eating, and sipping punch.
One face eluded me, however: the face belonging to the man in the Father Christmas suit, who stooped before the listing Christmas tree, arranging beautifully wrapped packages. Was it Aunt Anthea’s husband, I wondered, eyeing the broad shoulders, or had Willis, Sr., hired a professional to stand in for Bill? I edged closer to him, exchanging greetings with all and sundry as I went, and as I came within arm’s reach, he straightened from his crouch.
“Merry Christmas,” I said brightly.
“Ho ho ho!” he replied, and before I could identify the voice, the jolly old elf swung around, yanked off his beard, and swept me into a back-bending, full-contact kiss that first silenced the room, then brought shouts of approval from the assembled throng.
“Bill!” I gasped when he finally released me. “I thought you were in Iceland.”
“Hitched a ride with Santa,” he said.
“God bless Rudolph,” I murmured fervently, and pulled my husband to me for another mistletoe moment. Absence doesn’t make the heart alone grow fonder. I could feel my toes curl as Bill’s embrace tweaked each and every one of my God-given appetites.
It was hardly the time to indulge them, however. Lilian Bunting, worried by her cast members’ frequent trips to the punch bowl, asked us to help her gather her flock and pack them off to the schoolhouse, where the Nativity play was due to start in one hour’s time.
Willis, Sr., elected to ride to the village in Nell’s sleigh, and as Bill and I stood on the doorstep, waving them off, I had a sudden flash of inspiration.
“I’ve just thought of another Christmas present,” I said.
Bill enfolded me in his Father Christmas cape. “I’ve already got everything I want.”
I leaned against him, savoring the familiar contours of his body, and decided not to tell him that the present I’d thought of wasn’t meant for him. “I’ve missed you so much,” I murmured.
“Not half as much as I’ve missed you.” He kissed the top of my head. “Father told me why you went to London. Did you find the answers you wanted?”
“I found answers I didn’t know I was looking for.” I raised my head from his chest to look toward the lilac bushes, to the place where I’d first seen Kit Smith. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, we have a job to do.”
“What’s that?” Bill asked.
“Lilian’s got the cast and crew together,” I told him. “It’s up to us to supply the audience.”
22
Finch, that night, outshone even my cottage. Electric candles brightened every window and strings of fairy lights outlined each roof, crept from tree to tree around the square, and graced the holly bushes encircling the war memorial. Saint George’s Lane was jammed with cars, and bright-eyed revelers trundled between the pub and the schoolhouse doors, where Emma stood, selling tickets and handing out programs.
“How’s Lilian holding up?” I asked, when Bill and I reached the doorstep.
“Nerves of steel,” Emma replied. “It’s Peggy Kitchen who’s the basket case. She can’t find her beard.”
“Beard?” Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “Is there something I should know about Peggy before we go inside?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, O absent one,” I said, and hauled him into the schoolhouse.
Lilian’s newfound air of authority had brought an end to the chaos that had reigned during rehearsals. The folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows on either side of a central aisle, blue velvet drapes spangled with tinfoil stars had been hung to conceal the stage, and all traces of paint, sawdust, and sewing detritus had been swept away.
Bill and I found two empty seats in the back corner of the schoolroom, near Mr. Barlow, who hovered over a wire-covered lighting board the twins found utterly entrancing. While we wrestled with our inquisitive sons, Dick Peacock pounded out carols on the upright piano, accompanied by a chorus of anxious whispers and muttered depredations coming from the dressing areas on either side of the stage.
By the time six o’clock rolled around, every folding chair had been filled and at least twenty members of the audience were sitting on windowsills or standing in the back of the room. When Lilian emerged from the ladies’ dressing area and signaled for Dick Peacock to stop playing, she looked well pleased.
I stood, with Will wriggling in my arms, and flushed as every head turned in my direction.
“I don’t think anyone here expected to have anything to do with a place like Saint Benedict’s this Christmas.” I smiled wryly. “I certainly didn’t. When Kit Smith showed up on my doorstep, I was more concerned about head lice than about his well-being. But I’ve learned a thing or two since then. We all have, thanks to Kit.”
I shifted Will to my other hip before continuing.
“Kit’s arrival in Finch challenged all of us to be bigger and better than we thought we could be. And we managed, after a few false starts, to meet the challenge. I’ve never been prouder of my village than I am tonight. Thank you for opening your hands and hearts to Kit Smith and the men of Saint Benedict’s.”
My words were greeted by dead silence, broken suddenly by vigorous applause. Lilian waited for it to die down before taking the floor once again.
“If it is more blessed to give than to receive,” she said, “then it is we who owe Mr. Smith a vote of thanks. Those of you who would care to increase your donation to such a worthy cause may do so on the way out.” She paused. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, our play.”
Lilian took her seat in the front row, the vicar took his place behind the lectern to one side of the stage, the lights dimmed, and an anticipatory hush fell over the school-house.
“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed….”
The vicar’s pleasant, sonorous voice had its usual soporific effect—the moment he began to speak, the twins stopped squirming. As their heads drooped and they curled sleepily in their travel cots, I wondered fleetingly if Theodore Bunting would be available to read bedtime stories to them for the next five or so years.
“And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth….”
The blue velvet curtains parted jerkily and a spotlight picked out Nell Harris and Willis, Sr., at center stage, standing before the plywood facade of an inn with its door determinedly shut.
The tableau was unexpectedly moving. Nell sat on a moth-eaten vaulting horse, her hands on her swollen belly, her head turned slightly to one side. Her expression, a poignant mixture of patience and disappointment, was heartrending, and Willis, Sr., was equally effective. He stood, humbly clad in sandals and a dusty brown caftan, with one hand on Nell’s shoulder and the other pointing the way to the stable, where they would find shelter…
“…because there was no room for them in the inn.” The vicar paused, the spotlight faded, and the curtains jerked shut to a ripple of applause. Dick Peacock struck up a chorus of “Angels We Have Heard on High” that nearly succeeded in drowning out the thumps and grumbles coming from behind the curtain as the scenery was shifted.
“Your father’s done you proud,” I whispered to Bill.
“Remind me to tell him so when we get home,” he whispered back.
“I will,” I assured him.
“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field,” intoned the vicar, “keeping watch over their flock by night.”
The curtains opened a couple of feet and the spotlight fell lopsidedly on a sheep munching contentedly on a flake of alfalfa hay. The sheep won an instant round of applause.
An offstage voice whispered urgently, “Pull harder!” and the curtains flew apart. The spotlight widened to illuminate George Wetherhead and Able Farnham, dressed in bathrobes, with cord-bound dish towels draped artfully over their heads. Each clutched a sturdy shepherd’s crook—Lilian’s clever solution to the pair’s mobility problems. Between them, and slightly upstage of the sheep, stood an exceptionally corpulent palm tree, silhouetted against a backdrop of bilious green hills.
“And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,” read the vicar, “and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.”
Mr. Barlow pushed a lever and a second spotlight picked out Miranda Morrow, Finch’s freckle-faced, wholesome-looking witch, rising from the palm tree’s uppermost fronds. Miranda’s strawberry-blond hair had been crimped to form a berserk halo, and the wings on her back, though white, seemed more suitable to a bat than to an angel.
Able Farnham and George Wetherhead did a very good job of miming fear without budging one inch from their original, safely balanced positions. The sheep seemed unimpressed.
“And the angel said unto them…” The vicar paused.
“Fear not,” called Miranda Morrow, spreading her arms wide, “for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord….”
I’d heard the words a hundred times before, but tears pricked my eyes nonetheless, and as the play continued, I was swept up in its magic. Nothing—not even the sight of Peggy Kitchen in a jury-rigged false beard—could rob the ancient tale of its mystery and power. I looked from Piero Hodge’s tiny bare foot, kicking vigorously in the manger, to Will and Rob, sound asleep in their cots, and felt joy rise within me. All children are children of light, I thought. All children bring hope to the world.
The players were greeted with tumultuous applause when they lined up for their bows, and the roof nearly came off of the schoolhouse when Willis, Sr., drew Lilian from her chair to stand beside him at center stage. Dick Peacock harnessed the energy by leading everyone—cast, crew, and audience alike—in an exhilarating chorus of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” and brought the evening to a close with a single verse of “Silent Night.”
Will and Rob had been subjected to more than enough excitement for one day, so Bill and I sent them home with Francesca before accompanying our out-of-town guests to Anscombe Manor. With typical fickleness, the winter wind had changed from bitter to balmy during the course of the play, and the sky had begun to clear. By the time we reached the manor house, a single star shown brightly above the stable, where young Christopher Anscombe had spent the happiest days of his childhood.
“You and I should learn to ride,” I said to Bill, as we tramped through the snow to the manor house’s courtyard entrance. “The boys too, when they’re old enough.”
“Me, on a horse?” Bill leered at me with mock suspicion. “After my insurance, eh?”
I laughed. “It’s someone else’s insurance I’m thinking of. I’ll fill you in later.”
Emma and Derek had prepared a feast as bountiful as the one my neighbors had laid on at the cottage. The great hall was hung with greenery and lit with candles, and when the play’s cast arrived to celebrate their triumph, they were greeted with a rousing cheer. Bill and I drank from the wassail bowl, sampled the Christmas pudding, and mingled happily before bidding our guests good night and heading home.
“Do I have you to thank for bringing Christmas to the cottage?” I asked, as we pulled into the drive.
“Not guilty,” Bill proclaimed, eyeing the deformed robins clinging to the trellis. “Father let it be known that you were off helping Kit Smith and the villagers took it from there. They were at it all night in the kitchen, and they spent all morning desecrating—er, I mean, decorating—the cottage.”
“It’s not what I had planned.” I thought of the hard work and the enormous kindness that had gone into the appalling display, and sighed happily. “It’s much better.”
We linked arms as we strolled up the snow-covered flagstone path, and when we reached the doorway, I looked hesitantly up at my husband.
“Bill,” I said, “I know you want to hear about the amazing journey I’ve been on, but… there’s someone else I need t
o talk to first.”
Bill tapped his wristwatch. “I’ll give you a half hour,” he said. “Then I’m coming in after you.” He bent down to kiss me soundly before adding, “Tell Dimity that Father Christmas sends his best.”
Reginald was waiting for me in the study. My pink bunny sat on the ottoman, backlit by the fire in the hearth, gazing expectantly at the doorway as I entered the room. I placed Kit’s carryall beside him, took Aunt Dimity’s blue journal from its place on the bookshelves, and sat in the tall leather armchair.
“I’m glad you’re here, Reg,” I said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” I unzipped the carryall and took out the little brown horse, then opened the blue journal and leaned back. “His name’s Lancaster. I’m pretty sure you’re cousins.”
I looked down at the blue journal and saw a single word appear on the page in Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned copperplate.
Christopher.
“That’s right,” I said. “Kit Smith, the tramp, is Christopher Anscombe, the boy who used to ride over from Anscombe Manor along the bridle path.”
We never called him Kit. But I should have known. Sir Miles Anscombe, the Pathfinder badge… I should have known.
“You were thinking in a completely different direction,” I told her. “You were trying to remember an airman you’d met on a base up in Lincolnshire, not a little boy who grew up next door.”
What happened to Christopher? How did such a shining child end up living as a tramp?
I ran a thumb along Lancaster’s tangled mane, then set him gently beside Reginald. “It has to do with his father.”
But Sir Miles was a
“A hero,” I broke in. “Yes, I know. He was a hero who bombed schoolhouses and churches, who killed mothers and babies and old men. And he did it all because he wanted to make the world a better place for his own children. He used evil to fight evil, and in the end he came to believe that he was evil. Dimity…” I searched for a way to soften the blow, but found none. “Four years ago, Sir Miles Anscombe committed suicide.”
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