An Old-Fashioned Christmas Romance Collection

by DiAnn Mills

  Vernetta knew the meaning of the words her mother did not speak: “In case your father has another episode with his heart.” A nurse would recognize the symptoms before she or her mother and would know the best thing to do for him until the doctor arrived. Thank the Lord for the telephone, she thought. We’ll be able to reach the doctor quickly.

  Later that evening, Thomas had a few moments alone with Vernetta in the living room while Mrs. Larson was introducing the nurse to Mr. Larson. He listened as she explained her mother’s decision.

  “I’m so relieved she’s willing to part with her prized personal possessions,” she said. “When the bank collapsed, Mother revolted at the suggestion of selling anything.”

  Thomas stood in front of the parlor fireplace, one elbow resting on the mantel. His chest seemed too small for the sympathy he felt as he looked down at the young woman sitting in the nearby wing chair. If only he could spare her the pain of fearing for her father’s life!

  “When our loved ones face serious illness, we often find our values change, or perhaps more accurately, we become more clear about them,” he said gently.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I hope Father won’t need to pay the cost of a stronger lesson for us.” A tear lingered at the edge of one of her beautiful eyes, catching the light from the table lamp beside her.

  The sight crushed him. Thomas wished he could put his arms about her, draw her to his chest, and comfort her. But all he could do was lift a prayer for her and her father.

  Dora bustled into the room. “I may be speaking beyond my station, miss, but I was thinking—” She paused, then rushed on. “I was thinking that it’s time to begin the Christmas baking. The missus always likes lots of baked goods about for guests who drop in. The stove is still warm from dinner, so it wouldn’t take much to heat it back up. Baking cookies always makes me feel better. I thought it might cheer you up a bit to help. It won’t change your father’s awful sickness, but—”

  “What a thoughtful idea,” Vernetta interrupted her, rising. “It will be nice to have something to keep my mind from despondent thoughts.”

  Thomas watched the women leave the room together. Dora’s offer had been unconventional and perhaps, as she had said, beyond her station, but it had been offered with love. He was glad Vernetta had accepted it as such. He didn’t imagine many women would accept such an offer from their maid with the grace with which Vernetta had accepted Dora’s offer.

  There was no longer any doubt in his mind that he loved Vernetta, but as wonderful as he believed her to be, he couldn’t believe she would ever agree to marry a man of modest means such as himself.

  As the days passed, Father obeyed the doctor’s orders and kept to his bed, but Vernetta was worried. Has he lost his will to live? she wondered.

  Whenever she spent time with him, he spoke of the bank failure. “I don’t mind so much for myself that I lost my money,” he repeated again and again, “but I hate that I’ve lost Lena’s respect and that I’ve failed the depositors’ trust, lost the life savings of so many.”

  It did not matter how many times she and her mother assured him that he was not a failure and that he hadn’t lost their love and respect. He would not be convinced.

  After one such session, Vernetta joined her mother in the parlor. Mother was pacing back and forth, wringing her hands. When she saw Vernetta, she burst out, “How could I have been such a fool? When…how did I allow my values to become so…so misplaced? When did money and other people’s opinions become more important to me than my husband?”

  Vernetta reached out to her impulsively, but her mother kept pacing. “Mother, I know those things have never been more important to you than Father.”

  Her mother nodded furiously in disagreement. “Oh yes, I’m afraid they were.” She stopped in front of Vernetta. “Why didn’t I let him know as soon as the bank failed that I was willing to make whatever financial and social sacrifices necessary to help him get back on his feet financially? Why didn’t I let him know I love and admire him and will continue to do so even if he never regains his former status? It’s what I would have done as a young bride.”

  Vernetta took her mother’s hands. “It’s not too late to tell him now.”

  Mother’s shoulders slumped. “I have told him. I asked his forgiveness. It’s too late. All he can see is how he thinks he’s failed me. Failed me! I’m the one who has failed him.”

  Vernetta squeezed her mother’s fingers. “You haven’t failed.” Yet inside, she felt her mother’s despair and understood it.

  Thomas passed the store windows, filled with Christmas displays and enticing gifts and decorated with pine roping and brightly painted Christmas tree decorations. It was snowing, so the sidewalks were white and hard to maneuver.

  He stopped in front of an especially interesting display of a village of small houses in winter, but he barely noticed them. I wish I could make Christmas a happier time for Vernetta, he thought. Things had been hard enough for her before Mr. Larson’s heart had frightened them all so. With her added fear for her father’s health, both physical and mental—Thomas shook his head.

  A pretty silver vanity set caught his eye. He’d like to give Vernetta a Christmas gift, something beautiful like this set. Of course, it was inappropriate for their friendship, and even if it weren’t, she likely had a fine vanity set. Until recently, her father had always given her everything she needed and, Thomas suspected, everything material that she desired. It was a wonder she had grown up so sweet and unspoiled.

  No, the vanity table set was definitely out. Besides, hadn’t the article in the Tribune delineating popular Christmas gifts said that it was considered an outrage if a man, even a relative, gave a woman something as personal as manicure sets or toilet articles?

  He stopped to say hello to Lily, who was selling her wares in front of a photographer’s studio. He spoke with her for a few minutes, then left with a paper rose tucked in the lapel of his coat. He tried to push aside the familiar aching in his chest at the sight of a child working on the cold streets. There were too many of them. A man couldn’t walk a block without passing more than one. Maybe one day such things would not be allowed. Progress with child labor laws was slow, but Minnesota had passed a law recently that would cut the number of hours children could work for merchants. The law didn’t apply to children who sold their own wares on the streets though.

  When he’d crossed the street, Thomas turned and looked back at Lily. In her dark coat and muffler, she was silhouetted against the photographer’s window. A grin slid across his face. “Ah yes,” he said aloud. “That will be the perfect gift for Vernetta.”

  After dinner, Thomas visited with Mr. Larson. As usual, the older man was deep in self-pity, mourning in his Swedish accent that he’d lost his depositors’ money. Thomas gathered up his courage, took a deep breath, and said, “Perhaps there’s something you can do for the people who were hurt by the bank failure.”

  Mr. Larson grunted in surprise. “What could I possibly do? I’ve lost my fortune, too, you know.”

  “Only your financial fortune. You haven’t lost your hard-earned knowledge and wisdom.”

  Mr. Larson waved a hand in impatience. “Knowledge and wisdom! I’m a man whose bank failed! People don’t pay for knowledge that leads to failure.”

  Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He hadn’t thought the idea through before he mentioned it, but now he knew it was sound. “You could write a book and maybe speak about bank failures. Put in writing why your bank and others failed. Interview banking friends whose banks didn’t fail and ask what they believe they are doing right. That would help other bankers and the depositors who put their faith in them.”

  For a moment, he thought he saw a glimmer of excitement in Mr. Larson’s eyes. Then the man slumped even deeper into his pillows. “I was a banker, not a writer.”

  Thomas grinned. “I’m a writer. I’ll be glad to edit your work and help you find a publisher.”

 
; Mr. Larson stared at him for a long moment. Then a smile began to tug at one corner of his mouth. His eyes began to glimmer again. “Uff da! You are a persistent man, Thomas McNally. Maybe—only maybe, mind you—your idea will work.”

  He rubbed a large hand across his chin. “There are some friends who might even allow a failure an interview.” He listed a few powerful men whose names Thomas knew the public would certainly respect. By the time Mr. Larson was through, Thomas could see the man was excited about the idea.

  Mr. Larson sat up, no longer leaning against the bed pillows. “If this works out, if I make money from this, maybe one day I can pay back my depositors.” His voice was thick with emotion and brought a lump to Thomas’s throat. “It might take the rest of my life,” he continued, “but I can try. When the Panic subsides and the real estate market is better, perhaps I can sell this house and move to a smaller place. That would give me more money to use to pay the depositors.” He smiled and met Thomas’s gaze. “I think Mrs. Larson will support me in this now.”

  Thomas swallowed hard. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. She’s a fine, strong woman.”

  Mr. Larson grinned. “She is, isn’t she? She’s had a lot to put up with, too, with me for a husband.”

  Thomas laughed and rose. “Truer words were never spoken. I’ve stayed longer than I should have. The nurse will accuse me of overtiring you.”

  “Tell the nurse to bring me writing paper, pen, and ink,” Mr. Larson ordered. “I have work to do!”

  “I’ll tell her, but I don’t expect she’ll bring them before morning.”

  When Thomas stepped into the hall, he was surprised to see Vernetta standing to one side of the doorway. It was obvious she had no intention of entering the room, so he closed the door.

  Vernetta grasped his hands. Her eyes shone with joy. “Thank you, Thomas!”

  “For what?” He tightened his fingers about hers, enjoying the rare intimate touch.

  “I overheard your discussion with Father. I was going to visit him, but when I heard you two talking, I hesitated in the hallway. I heard you suggest to him that he write a book about the banks. I know he can do it.”

  “Of course he can,” Thomas assured her, still reveling in her touch, in the glory in her eyes.

  “I was afraid he’d lost his will to live. If I was right, you’ve given it back to him. You’ve helped everyone in our family regain hope.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You introduced Mother and me to the flower girls and newsboys, giving us a reason to think of someone beyond ourselves. You’ve helped me get newspaper articles published, to bring in a little more money. Most important, you’ve given Father a reason to live, a way to make something good come out of the worst experience of his life.”

  Thomas shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “I hardly think I did all that.”

  Her laugh sounded like music to him. “Oh yes, you did. The Bible tells us we may entertain angels unaware, but I must admit”—she glanced up at him coquettishly from beneath her lashes—”I never thought an angel would come to us with a name like Thomas Michael McNally.”

  Thomas laughed. The idea was absurd! “I’m no angel. I’m a man, and I’ll thank you to remember it, Vernetta Larson.”

  Vernetta shook her head. “To me, you will never be a mere man.” She squeezed his fingers quickly and started toward the stairway.

  Thomas watched her, his heart pounding, wanting to believe her comments meant she would welcome him as a suitor. “Don’t be foolish, McNally,” he admonished himself in a harsh whisper. “She may consider you an angel, but women don’t often fall in love with angels.”

  Chapter 9

  The evening of the Christmas program, the basement mission Sunday school was alive with activity. The reporters at the Tribune had taken up a fund to contribute a Christmas tree for the pageant. It was so large that the trunk had to be cut off so the tree didn’t hit the ceiling.

  “The children will love it!” Vernetta cried. “How wonderful of your reporter friends to provide it.”

  “You’re one of my reporter friends now.” Thomas stood beside her, admiring the tree.

  A reporter! She hadn’t thought of the title in relation to herself. A thrill ran along her arms at the thought. “You didn’t ask me to contribute to the tree fund.”

  “I thought you were contributing enough with your time.” He shook his head. “Afraid the reporters’ donation didn’t include decorations.”

  “I have the perfect decorations.” She turned toward the kitchen, where Cora and Cornelia were busy unloading baskets. “Miss Cora, Miss Cornelia, please come here.”

  Thomas watched their approach, puzzled.

  “What would you think of decorating the tree with your mittens?” Vernetta asked them.

  Cora clapped her hands in delight. “A mitten tree! What a wonderful idea!”

  Thomas crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward. “Mittens?”

  Cora’s soft, wrinkled face lit up. “We wanted to do something for the children…”

  “So we asked our knitting group to help us make mittens,” Cornelia finished.

  “They have enough to give each child a pair.” Vernetta smiled at Thomas, but he looked blurry through her tears. The Wibbey sisters had told her of their project only that morning, and their generosity warmed her heart.

  The Wibbeys, Mother, Vernetta, and Thomas hung the mittens on the tree. They covered the tree so thoroughly that the branches were almost hidden. Then Vernetta and Thomas attached small beeswax candles in tin holders to the edges of the branches, where the flames wouldn’t catch the branches above on fire.

  “We’d best give out the mittens before lighting the tree,” Thomas said, setting a large pail of water beside the tree in case of fire.

  When they were done, Captain Rogers set a small wooden fence around the bottom of the tree. He laid moss within the fence and then placed wooden animals he’d carved and Mother’s nativity. Vernetta, Lena, Thomas, the Wibbeys, and the other volunteers raved over the captain’s work. Thomas grinned at Vernetta. “I see this has become a family affair.”

  Her heart leaped at his words: a family affair. What a wonderful thought, that he and she would be part of the same family. She tried to shush her thoughts. Didn’t he and Dora have a special relationship? It would serve her well not to forget.

  “It’s too bad Dora couldn’t be here with us,” she said carefully, “but she did help us bake cookies for the lunch.”

  Thomas leaned close. “Don’t tell your mother, but I think Dora is planning to spend the evening at the skating rink with her beau.”

  Vernetta felt her jaw drop. “Her…her beau?”

  Thomas nodded. “Didn’t she tell you about him?”

  Vernetta could only shake her head.

  “He’s a nice chap, recently arrived from Sweden. Dora’s head over heels for him.”

  “You…know him?”

  “They let me join them ice-skating a few times.” He turned as the door opened and a bunch of newsies came in noisily.

  I thought he had taken Dora skating! Vernetta’s heart leaped with joy. Thomas doesn’t love Dora! With an effort, she turned her attention to the newsies.

  Their arms were filled with pine roping and wreaths, and their faces were filled with grins. “What do ya think?” Erik asked, stopping in front of Thomas and Vernetta and lifting his laden arms. “We went ta parks and down along the river and gathered the pine ta make these ropes and wreaths ta decorate the mission.”

  “They are beautiful!” Vernetta assured him. She and Erik had grown to know and respect each other since she began working at the mission.

  “Great job, boys,” Thomas chimed in.

  “Wow!” Erik started toward the Christmas tree, almost forgetting his usual swagger. “Check out this, newsies!”

  The boys flocked around it, loud in their praise of the tree’s size and beauty.

  Soon the boys were stringing the rope alo
ng the top of the piano, the top of the picture that hung over the piano, and from the corners of the room to the light that hung from the middle of the ceiling.

  They were barely done when the flower girls arrived in a group. Lily was clutching a bouquet of tissue paper roses so huge that it hid her drab, ill-fitting coat. Lily’s gaze quickly searched the room, then lit up when she saw Vernetta. The girl hurried over, followed by the others. Bright, expectant smiles filled the girls’ too-thin faces.

  Lily held out the bouquet. “These are for you, Miss Larson.” Her voice was almost as soft as real rose petals.

  “All of these?” Vernetta struggled to stop the laughter that filled her throat. It was such a huge bouquet! Surely Lily’s family couldn’t afford to give away so many flowers. I’ll have to find a way to give them back and still spare Lily’s feelings, she thought. The roses crackled when she gathered them in her arms.

  “They’re from all of us,” Lily told her. “We each made one, just for you.”

  Tears sprang to Vernetta’s eyes. She couldn’t dash them away with her arms filled with roses. Her gaze swept the faces turned toward her as trustingly as flowers turn toward the sun. Every face held a smile, but Vernetta recognized a trace of fear as well, and realized the girls were afraid she wouldn’t value their gift.

  She dropped her gaze to the flowers. A tear fell upon a tissue petal, leaving a wrinkle as a permanent memory. Vernetta lifted the bouquet to her face. It seemed she could almost smell the fragrance of roses. It isn’t the roses, a voice in her heart said, it’s the fragrance of love.

  Vernetta swallowed hard. She smiled shakily and tasted a tear on the edge of her lips. “It’s a magnificent gift. The most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.”