An Old-Fashioned Christmas Romance Collection

by DiAnn Mills

  Thomas broke their locked gazes to guide the horse as they met another carriage. “Mrs. Pilgrim said she was going to ask you to teach regularly.”

  Vernetta took a deep breath, trying to regain her equilibrium. “She did ask, and I agreed. I think it will be fun.”

  Thomas’s grin split his face again. “I’m glad. Mrs. Pilgrim said the girls like you.”

  “I like them.” Two boys in a snowball battle caught her eye. “It seems whenever I’m downtown, there is a newsboy on every corner. It’s humbling to realize I wouldn’t have been able to tell one from another before today. As though they were as interchangeable as…as the marbles with which they play!”

  She knew Thomas must hear the shame in her voice, but she didn’t know how to hide it. She was ashamed she hadn’t paid more attention to these brave boys.

  “Many of the boys, like Erik, and the flower girls are orphans.” Thomas spoke quietly. “Others are runaways or have been abandoned by their parents. Right now with the Panic, more than the normal number of newsies and flower girls live with parents who are out of work.”

  “And I felt sorry for myself because Father lost his fortune.” Her whisper sounded strained, even to her own ears. “We still have so much compared to those children.”

  “I don’t know that we can always measure loss in that manner. Every loss requires healing and adjustment. Your father lost more than money. He acquired his fortune by his dedication to serving people. When the bank failed, he must have believed he’d failed those people. I’m sure believing that is a greater measure of failure to him than losing his fortune.”

  Vernetta stared at him, gratitude for his insight filling her with wonder. “Yes, that is exactly how he feels.”

  Neither spoke while Thomas guided the horse across the trolley tracks, the carriage jerking. Then Vernetta said, “The offering this morning surprised me. I would think the children would need the little money they make so badly that they wouldn’t have anything to give. Yet every child put something in the plate.”

  “We encourage tithing. We also encourage saving. Most of the children have started savings accounts because of the Sunday school and add to their accounts regularly, though it might be only a few pennies. We don’t force either tithing or savings. We believe the decision is between the children and God and their families, if they have families.”

  “I’m surprised their parents allow them to give money away during these hard times.”

  Thomas held the reins loosely. He had a thoughtful look on his wide, handsome face beneath his gray bowler. “I believe tithing and saving are ways of expressing their faith in our God of hope, don’t you?” He guided the carriage to the horse stoop in front of Vernetta’s home.

  She recalled the verse from the fifteenth chapter of Romans that he’d read to the assembled classes that morning: “Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.” She nodded slowly. “Don’t you find it difficult to hope when you see the poverty the children live in?”

  He sat looking out over the snow-covered lawns. “I think it is the work with the children that gives me hope.” She watched his face as he struggled for the right words. “I know that no one person can solve all the children’s problems, but if we each do what is put in front of us—what we are able to do financially, physically, and emotionally—how can things help but get better, even if bit by bit?”

  Warmth spread through her chest at his words. “I guess they can’t.”

  His answer to her question reminded her of when he first came to her home to ask about a room. She’d hoped he would become a boarder, for she’d felt they needed his cheerful spirit. It was his spirit of hope we needed, she thought. My family needs that, the way the entire country needs the God of Hope now, in the midst of the Panic of 1893.

  Chapter 5

  Vernetta bit her bottom lip and frowned, bending over the gown she was mending. She’d caught the hem with the heel of her shoe. Sewing had never been her strong suit, and it took all her concentration to keep her stitches even and small. She shifted slightly, so the light from the painted parlor lamp fell more strongly on her work.

  She looked up at the quiet rap on the parlor door. Her mother, seated across the room on a delicate upholstered rocker, muttered, “What can those boarders want now,” before raising her voice. “Come in.”

  Cora and Cornelia Wibbey bustled into the room, smiles filling their wrinkled faces. “Mrs. Larson, may we use your kitchen to make cookies?” Cora asked.

  “For the men at the Veteran’s Home,” Cornelia elaborated.

  “We’ll pay for the ingredients of course,” Cora added in a breathless tone.

  Vernetta smiled. The ladies’ attitude reminded her of ten-year-old girls who might ask the same favor. She found the manner with which they approached life delightful.

  Mother held her needlework in one hand and made a shooing motion with the other. “Yes, yes, of course. But see that you clean up the kitchen after yourselves. Dora hasn’t the time.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Larson.” Cornelia turned to leave.

  Cora stood where she was, glancing about the parlor. “What a lovely room, Mrs. Larson! You’ve created a charming atmosphere. No wonder you spend so much time in here.”

  “Thank you, Miss Wibbey.”

  Cornelia grasped her sister’s hand. “Come along, Cora. We must get started if we want to get those cookies baked this evening.”

  The door swung shut behind them silently. Mother gave a deep sigh and returned to her Swedish tatting. “Honestly, the boarders have become such a bother. I told your father they would, but he didn’t listen to me. He said if they used the living room and kitchen, they wouldn’t be under foot.” She dropped both hands into her lap and glared across the room at Vernetta. “As though we could keep from running into them coming and going! The Wibbey sisters are the worst of the lot.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They are talkative and inquisitive. Why, they act as though they wish to be friends with us, and with Dora.” Mother pinched her lips together and picked up her needlework again. “They should know their place.”

  Vernetta concentrated on her stitches, trying to quiet the indignation filling her chest. What was it Thomas had said the day they’d met? Oh yes. That people often react with bitterness or anger to change and the fears change brings in its wake. “Do you know what Miss Cornelia meant by saying the cookies were for the men at the Veteran’s Home? Do they have friends there?”

  “Not that I know of. I expect they mean to send the cookies with your father and Captain Rogers. The captain has friends at the home at Minnehaha Park. That young newspaperman has convinced your father to go with the captain to visit some Civil War veterans tomorrow.”

  “What a wonderful idea! It will be good for Father.”

  “Hmph! I’m not so sure of that. It would be better if he spent his time among men of his own class.”

  Vernetta bit back an angry retort.

  “I expect the Wibbey sisters aren’t baking those cookies for the veterans out of the goodness of their hearts,” Mother added. “They’ve set their caps for the captain, or I’m not Swedish.”

  Laughter bubbled up inside Vernetta. “Both of them?”

  “Of course, both of them.” Her mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Now that you mention it, I guess it is. It’s rather cute, isn’t it? But I hope their hearts aren’t truly involved. Wouldn’t it be awful if one of the sisters won his affection and the other was left alone?”

  “They should know better at their age.” Mother straightened her shoulders. “Speaking of knowing better, I hope you aren’t letting your heart get away from your head.”

  The smile the Wibbey sisters had brought to Vernetta’s lips froze. “What do you mean?”

  “You are friendlier than necessary with that young newspaperman. I think it would be
better if you gave up the notion of working with the newsboys’ Sunday school.”

  “Why would you object to my working with the children?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, child. I condone mission work, but I don’t like you working so closely with that newspaperman. Your pride is bound to be a bit battered after losing Andrew. It would be only natural if you encouraged Mr. McNally’s attentions.”

  “Mother, I have not—”

  “I understand why you want to show Andrew that other young men find you attractive. However, a newspaperman will not make a man of Andrew’s stature jealous. Such a friendship might chase away not only Andrew but other young men of our social standing.”

  Taking a deep breath to settle the indignation rising within her, Vernetta set the gown on the sofa beside her and stood. “I’d like to speak with Father. Is he in?”

  Mother snorted inelegantly, her gaze still on her fancywork. “I expect you’ll find him in the living room with Captain Rogers and that newspaperman. I can’t imagine why he neglects our presence to spend time with them!” She looked up. “Now, don’t you forget what I said about encouraging Mr. McNally’s attentions.”

  “I won’t forget, Mother.” Vernetta slipped into the hallway, glad to leave her mother’s acid remarks behind.

  As her mother predicted, she found her father in the living room talking with Thomas. Captain Rogers was not with them. Yellow flames danced and crackled merrily in the fireplace in front of which the two men sat in wing chairs.

  Vernetta was glad for the friendship her father was finding with Thomas and the captain, glad he was going to the Veteran’s Home. It would do him good to center his attention on something besides his financial problems.

  He still went to the bank daily. It was closed, but there was much to do to pass the bank into receivership. Vernetta knew from what he’d said that the work was depressing. He was no longer receiving an income for the work, either, and because of the time spent at the bank, he had no time to seek employment elsewhere.

  “Who would hire a man whose bank has failed anyway?” he’d asked Vernetta one day. The memory sliced at her heart.

  “The work you are doing with the newsboys is a good thing, Thomas,” Father was saying. “They need young men to learn from, men they can look up to.”

  Thomas leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands linked loosely. “I love the work, sir. From the first time I heard of the Sunday school, I’ve wanted to be part of it. I guess working at the newspaper makes the newsboys special to me.”

  Father wagged an index finger in Thomas’s direction. “The time you give to those children is an investment in their lives. It will pay rewards in the future, the same as money that is invested earns interest.”

  “I hope the investment earns a good interest rate on each and every life.” Thomas’s voice was lower than usual. Vernetta heard the crack in it and knew he spoke his heart.

  “There are no guarantees,” Father warned. “We can’t make choices for others, even when we can see their own choices are leading them into dangerous and unhappy places. There will be boys in whose lives you won’t be able to tell you’ve made a difference. That will not lessen the importance of the lives your investment will change.”

  Thomas stared into the dancing flames. Vernetta could hear nothing but the crackle and pop from the fireplace as he considered her father’s words. Then Thomas shifted his gaze to Father’s face.

  “You’re right, sir.” His voice was still low and quiet. “If I might be so bold, I hope you take your own advice to heart. You should not judge yourself and your career only by the investments that failed. You made many wise investments in the past that benefitted the people you served.”

  Sudden tears burned Vernetta’s eyes and blurred her view of the two men.

  Father cleared his throat. Still, his voice sounded thick. “Thank you, my boy.”

  Thank You for Thomas, she prayed silently. He has been such a gift to our family.

  She blinked suddenly, staring at Thomas through her tears. No wonder her mother’s implications about Thomas and herself had made her so angry. Her mother’s perceptions had been far clearer than her own. I think I am falling in love with him!

  A strange mixture of wonder and dread filled her. Her mother would be furious if she discovered Vernetta’s feelings for Thomas. Likely she would think her daughter had fallen for “that young newspaperman” simply to upset her.

  No need to worry about that yet, silly goose. Thomas Michael McNally has shown no signs of falling in love with me!

  Sadness touched the edges of wonder that had filled her only moments before, like the brown wilt at the edges of a rose’s petals.

  Chapter 6

  The next Sunday Vernetta waited for Thomas in the sleigh after Sunday school. He stood nearby on the sidewalk, talking with Erik. Watching them, she remembered the discussion between her father and Thomas. The memory warmed her more thoroughly than the thick buffalo lap robe Thomas had tucked about her.

  A minute later he climbed up beside her and they started home. There had been a snowfall the night before, and the sleigh schussed along smoothly on its runners. The street was filled with others enjoying the sleighing. People greeted each other noisily as sleighs met and passed in the street. Sleigh bells lent melody to the crisp air, which carried the smell of wood smoke from numerous chimneys and stung Vernetta’s nose.

  “Hey McNally!” a young man called from a sleigh that drew alongside them. “Looks like you have a good sleigh and horse there. Come to the lake and let’s race!” It was common for young people to race their sleighs on roads along the city’s lakes.

  Thomas laughed and waved him away. “Not with the lady with me!”

  Vernetta saw his friend’s gaze sweep over her face. “Don’t blame you!” he called. He urged his horse on and in a minute left them behind.

  Vernetta glanced at Thomas from the corner of her eye. She was learning to cherish this time traveling between the downtown Sunday school and home with Thomas. There were so few times they were alone. She found it easy to confide in Thomas during these times. Perhaps his concentration on driving helped; she knew every expression in her eyes and face were not open to his gaze.

  “Every time I’m around the newsboys and flower girls I feel more useless,” she confided now. “I’ve tried to find employment to help with the family finances, but with no success. I don’t know how to do anything for which anyone will pay. Even the flower girls have more skills than me!”

  “You’re too hard on yourself. You forget that many of the children’s out-of-work fathers have experience working and still can’t find jobs. It’s the hard times that are the cause, not your lack of skill.”

  “Your words are kind, but I’m not sure they are accurate in my case.”

  “Look at the impression you’ve had on the flower girls. Surely you don’t consider that useless?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you noticed they’ve begun imitating you? The way you carry yourself, your manner of speech, the way they are trying to be more careful of their appearance?” He flashed a smile at her. “They are imitating a most lovely example, if I may be so bold.”

  She turned her gaze quickly to the beaver fur muff that warmed her hands. She couldn’t stop her smile at the unexpected compliment. He finds me attractive! Her heart swelled with joy.

  His attention back on the horse and street, he said, “It was a great idea you had, bringing soft towels and soap for the kids to wash up with before dinner. Good training for them. And the flower girls liked the fragrant soap you brought.”

  Indeed, the hall had smelled like lavender when the girls were done washing their hands and faces. Vernetta remembered the way Lily had held the lavender-scented soap to her nose and breathed deeply before washing. “Now I’ll smell like you, Miss Larson,” she’d said in a timid voice.

  A greeting called from another sleigh brought her back to the present.
She waved and smiled at her friend, but her mind was still on Lily. “Sometimes,” she told Thomas, “when I think of Lily, the story of the little match girl comes to mind. I don’t want Lily to end up like the match girl. Remember how the match girl lit the matches she was to sell, burning up her only way to make a living, and then died during the cold winter’s night?”

  His brown eyes went almost black with emotion. His jaw was tight. “That won’t happen to Lily.”

  She met his gaze steadily. “Thanks to you and people like you who started that Sunday school—investing in children, as Father said.”

  He flicked the reins lightly, his attention apparently back on his driving. She sensed he was uncomfortable with her obvious admiration of his heart’s work and changed the subject. “I’ve been trying to think of something I could do to make money. At the very least I would like to make enough to pay for the—”

  She stopped abruptly. She’d almost said she wanted to pay for the holiday gowns her mother insisted she have. Even though she felt her mother was wrong, she had no intention of insulting her to anyone else, even Thomas. “Do you think…I might be able to write articles for a newspaper?”

  Thomas jerked up straight, almost causing the horse to stop. “A reporter? I’m sure you are a capable writer, but it isn’t so easy as it apparently seems to research a news story, write it in the number of words the editor wants, and get it done before the presses roll.”

  I hurt his feelings! The realization tightened her chest. “I didn’t mean to imply that it doesn’t take skill to do your work. It’s only…I’m trying to find something I can do.”

  “Maybe you could submit some short pieces for the social page.” His voice sounded as though he was somewhat mollified by her apology.

  His answer was dissatisfying. Small social pieces weren’t likely to pay much, but his advice made sense. She decided she would keep her eyes and ears open at the next of the season’s many parties.

  Thomas looked up over the top of the evening paper as Cora Wibbey’s voice drifted into the living room from the hall. “Don’t be modest, dear. Everyone will want to see how lovely you look before you leave for the party.”