by Hall, Karen
Theodore affected a deep sigh. “If I must. Is there any tea to be had?”
“You’ll have to ask Celeste,” was her reply. “Run along now. Mr. Clark and I have business to finish.”
She waved in dismissal, and with another sigh, Theodore withdrew and closed the door behind him. “Celeste?” they heard him call. “Is there tea? Be a good girl and fetch me a cup.”
Grayson noted the slight frown drawing Miss Chamberlain’s eyebrows together. “He seems very confident in his expectations of getting what he wants,” he said.
She spread her hands. “Theodore is a barrister,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“Ah,” Grayson said, his heart sinking. How could a mere clergyman, even one with a small private income, compete with a barrister’s eloquence? Then he forced a smile and said, “I don’t want to keep you from your father. Shall we finish my friend’s letter?”
“Most certainly,” she said, reaching for a pen. “I believe it began, ‘since the moment of our first meeting…’“
Too soon they had finished, and after allowing enough time for the ink to dry, Miss Chamberlain handed it to Grayson. Her fingertips grazed his, and unexpected, but not unwelcome heat jolted up his arm.
“There you are, Mr. Clark,” she said. “Is that all?”
Grayson’ s thoughts whirled like mad. “Actually, I believe my friend may want more than one letter. But he wants to know the lady’s reaction before he proceeds. Do you require payment now or later?”
Her brown eyes sparkled. “Let’s wait until we know what the lady thinks,” she suggested. “And how could I not trust such an honest courier?”
The door opened again to show Theodore carrying a large tray with a pot of tea, and two cups.
Two. Grayson might not be a barrister, but he knew when to take a hint. He placed the precious letter in the folder, stood, and inclined his head. “I will convey this letter to my friend with all speed,” he said. “Thank you for your help, Miss Chamberlain. Good day to you. I expect I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow afternoon, Theodore?”
Barrett’s dark eyebrows rose as if in surprise at such a question. “Since I’m playing Scrooge, of course you will.”
“Have you finished memorizing your lines for Act Two?” A most un--clergy like feeling of smug satisfaction surged through Grayson as he recalled how the barrister had struggled at last week’s rehearsal.
“Very nearly,” Theodore said loftily. “I’ll be ready by tomorrow.”
“Good.” Grayson stood. “I’ll let Miss Chamberlain tell you her news. Give my best to your father, Miss Chamberlain.”
He left, and a moment later, the bell over the front door jingled in departure. Theo set the tray on Holly’s desk and raised his eyebrows. “What news do you have for me?”
“Matthew Timmons sent Mr. Clark to ask me to play Mrs. Crachit in St. Martin’s production of A Christmas Carol ,” Holly explained, filling their cups with a steaming Darjeeling.
“Why, that’s splendid,” Theo declared. “And perhaps you can help me finish memorizing my lines after dinner tonight? I can hardly fail with so charming a coach.”
“If you like,” Holly said. How hard could it be for a man in love with the sound of his own voice to memorize lines for a play?
Chapter Two
Grayson made his way down the street, hands jammed in his coat pockets. The thought of being on stage with Holly Chamberlain should make him the happiest of men.
And few, if any of their scenes, would include the insufferable Theodore Barrett. Grayson wouldn’t mind calling up a ghost or two to frighten the barrister right out of London.
The wind picked up and he pulled his coat more tightly about him. In spite of its only being half past four in the afternoon, the electric streetlights already glimmered overhead, casting a golden glow onto the streets below. People hurried by, some carrying bags no doubt filled with early Christmas gifts.
Christmas gifts. Grayson slowed his walk to examine the decorated shop windows. He needed to find gifts for his younger brother and sisters at home in Kent. With his salary—not to mention the recent legacy a distant relative had left each of them—the cost of the purchases was not a problem. It was buying for his notoriously choosy three younger sisters-- Rebecca, Marian, and Sus annah-- that took so much time. At least his brother, Hugh would be happy with a new cricket bat. He turned down Chestnut Street to start his search.
Bright jewel tones in cobalt and amethyst from bolts of silk artfully draped over the shelves in a shop window stopped Grayson’s progress. Christmas ornaments shimmered from a decorated tree on a pedestal and a set of foot-high carved wooden soldiers faced each other, ready for battle. A quick glance at the sign overhead showed this establishment to be Harrell’s Fine Gifts. Another blast of cold wind sent Grayson hurrying inside.
“Good afternoon, sir!” A plump, pretty woma n with bright blonde hair called from behind the front counter. “Welcome to Harrell’s Fine Gifts. How may I serve you today?”
“I’m looking for Christmas gifts for my siblings,” Grayson said, returning her smile.
“We carry many lovely items, sir, for all tastes and pocketbooks,” the woman told him. “I’m Mrs. Harrell. Is there anything in particular you wanted to find?”
“I’m not sure,” Grayson admitted. “This is my first day of shopping.”
“Might I suggest a new Christmas stocking to begin, sir?” Mrs. Harrell pointed at a mock mantle from where a long row of stockings hung, each with a large elaborately embroidered initial.
“Those are very nice,” Grayson said, walking across the room to examine them. “Do you have them in all letters?”
“Bless you, sir, yes! They’re one of our most popular items. I’ve got girls who work on them almost all year ‘round . People start placing orders as early as February, ‘specially if they want the one with more detailed work.”
“I think that would make a good start.” Grayson returned to the counter and took out his wallet. “I need four, with the letters, M, H, R, and S. Ones like you have over there will do just fine.”
Mrs. Harrell rang a bell on the counter and a girl came from behind a curtain. Mrs. Harrell gave her Grayson’s order and she departed, returning several minutes later with a stack of brightly wrapped flat boxes. She gave them to Mrs. Harrell, smiled at Grayson and disappeared again behind the curtain.
“That will be two pounds, sir,” Mrs. Harrell said as she put the boxes into a sack. “That may seem a bit much, but I want to pay the girls well, and it helps pay for the wrapping paper.” She winked and said, “No offense, sir, but I’ve never found a man who could wrap a package well. He might be able to cut up a Christmas goose like a surgeon, but he’s all thumbs when it comes to wrapping a present.”
“And to that I say, amen!” Grayson paid her, put away his wallet and took the gifts from her. “I wish you a good afternoon.”
“Thank you sir. Come again. We’re open until ten on Christmas Eve.”
Grayson exited the shop, found an omnibus and rode it back to St. Martin’s. Mrs. Ramsey his housekeeper, was waiting in the front hall of the rectory.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ramsey.” Grayson shrugged out of his coat, took off his hat and hung them on the hall tree in the corner. “May I trouble you for a cup of tea? It’s brisk outside.”
“You have a visitor,” she answered, her hands firmly planted on her broad hips. “It’s himself. I’ve put him in the parlor.” Irritation replaced her usual cherry tone.
Grayson withheld his sigh of impatience. “Tobias Small?”
Her frown was deep enough for both of them. “The same.”
Grayson forced his features into a mask of neutrality at the mention of the austere and stern man that was St. Martin’s former rector. Despite his retirement three
years ago, Tobias Small continued to “drop by” St. Martin’s regularly to “check on things.” That he was good friends with Cyrus Honeywell, the senior warden, did not make things any easier. Grayson had no doubt the two men got together for a good chinwag more often than half the matrons in St. Martin’s choir, and that he was the chief source of their gossip.
“Indeed?” Grayson gave her the bag from Harrell’s. “Well, then you’d best bring in tea with all possible speed.”
“It’s already there.” Mrs. Ramsey cocked her head at the door. “Best hurry.”
Nodding in silent agreement, Grayson hurried to the parlor. Behind its oak door, a silver--haired man stood before the fireplace, cup already in hand. He stared at Grayson and frowned. . “Mr. Clark,” he said, the chill in his voice matching the one in his dark eyes.
“Mr. Small,” Grayson returned, forcing his legs to travel slowly across the room.
He, after all, was now rector of St. Martin in the Pines. Grayson stopped to pour a cup of tea and noted with quiet delight that Mrs. Ramsey had not sent in any cakes or scones. He allowed himself a moment to take several sips before asking, “How may I help you?”
The older man barely hid his scowl. “I’ve come to discuss a matter of some importance with you concerning St. Martin’s. May we sit?”
“Certainly.” Grayson waited until the older man sat in the room’s best chair before choosing the one opposite. “Again, how may I help you?”
“You are no doubt aware that St. Martin’s is in need of a new roof.” Small’s tone suggested that Grayson was somehow responsible for the problem.
“Yes, and we have been trying to raise funds to replace, or at least repair it,” Grayson said. “But times are hard for some of our folk. And what with Christmas approaching, they will be wanting to save for their families.”
Something resembling a smile threatened to raise the corners of Mr. Small’s thin lips. “Well, I think I may know of a solution.”
“I’d be delighted if you would share it with me.” At least Grayson was not stretching the truth when he said that.
“I have heard from more than one source that Miss Priscilla Honeywell is fond of you,” Mr. Small said. “Perhaps I should say very fond of you.”
Good Heavens! Grayson swallowed the words before he choked on them. “And what does this have to do with St. Martin’s roof?”
The almost smile broadened a fraction. “Miss Honeywell’s grandfather, Sir Cyrus Honeywell has suggested to me that any particular attention to her from you could result in a generous donation to St. Martin’s, if you know what I mean.”
So it hadn’t been Grayson’s imagination. The porcelain skinned beauty’s dainty but obvious flattery had been flirtation! Clearing his throat, Grayson asked, “Are you saying that any attentions I pay to Miss Honeywell might—”
“Will, my boy, will.” Condescension fairly dripped from Small’s voice. “Mr. Honeywell is determined that if it is within his power, he will get his granddaughter whatever she wants. And she is, I believe, in St. Martin’s cast of A Christmas Carol?
You know that she is, you old busybody. Grayson nodded.
“Well, there you have it. Just turn on that charm you used to get the Altar Guild to sew new linens for us instead of us having to buy them , and we’ll have a new roof by Easter.” Small moved his glance from Grayson’s face to the tea tray with its lack of food and his frown returned.
“I’ll give it serious consideration, sir,” Grayson said, hoping his grip on the teacup didn’t result in the handle breaking. About thirty seconds worth.
“See that you do.” Small got to his feet, put his cup on a nearby table and crossed the room to open the door. “Mrs. Ramsey?” he called. “My coat and hat if you please.”
Grayson waited until the front door clicked to a close before putting his cup aside. “Good Heavens,” he said again to the now quiet room. “What am I going to do?”
Chapter Three
“Places again, everyone, places!” Matthew Timmons shouted. “We’ve only a few hours to get this right, so let’s make the best of it! Ghost of Christmas Present, are you ready?”
“Indeed I am,” Priscilla Honeywell nearly purred her answer as she smiled in Grayson Clark’s direction. Holly gritted her teeth at the clergyman’s returning smile. It was better than throwing a fit. And it was beastly unfair that Priscilla’s ghost got to wear a beautiful silver robe while Holly’s Mrs. Cratchit wore a plain dress “made brave with ribbons.” How could she possibly compete with a silver robe?
“Scrooge?” Matthew shouted. “Where are you?”
“Just coming,” Theo answered, appearing out of the wings.
“Cratchit family, take your places! Bob and Tiny Tim, get ready for your entrance,” Matthew directed. “We start with Martha’s entrance.”
The action began and Holly envisioned herself as a married woman with many children, making do on fifteen bob a week. The younger actors recited their lines perfectly and she responded in kind. Off to one side, Theo and Priscilla’s characters observed in silence.
The door built into the set swung open and oh my goodness, there was Grayson, costumed as poorly as she with little Dick Allen perched on his shoulder. The action proceeded with Martha’s surprise homecoming and then her and her brothers hustling Tiny Tim off stage.
“And how did our little Tim behave in church?” Holly asked, watching Grayson/Bob Cratchit unwind the required three feet of scarf.
“As good as gold and—”
“Stop!” Matthew shouted. “Something’s not right.”
“With our lines?” Holly asked, sure that they were.
“No.” Matthew came forward and stared at the pair, tapping his chin with his ever present pencil. “Something’s not right between the two of you. I know! Grayson, you’re going to have to kiss her.”
“What?” Holly squeaked.
“What?” Grayson Clark’s tenor voice rose an octave.
“Well, on the cheek,” Matthew amended. “You are supposed to be married. We want this to be realistic, after all. You don’t mind terribly, do you Holly?”
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Matthew! Holly’s heart sang, but she kept her lips pressed together in a frown of concentration. “Not at all,” she said at last. “As long as Mr. Clark has no objections.”
Mr. Clark darted a look at Priscilla. She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes and Holly considered undoing the many ribbons of her own costume and tying up Priscilla with them and leaving her somewhere.
“I suppose not,” Mr. Grayson said at last, returning his gaze to Holly’s face.
“Excellent.” Matthew struck his open palm with a fist. “Let’s try it. Cratchits, back on stage. Clara, make your entrance as Martha again, if you please.”
Her heart pounding with a rib bruising force, Holly managed to make her way through the scene with her “children” until Grayson entered again with little Dick on his shoulder. Soon enough, the children had departed again, leaving the Cratchits alone.
“And how was our Tim in church this afternoon?” Lord, I’m changing my lines, but Grayson Clark is about to kiss me!” Holly stepped forward to help him with the long, long scarf.
And then he was leaning toward her until he was so close Holly could catch the faint scent of something sweet and spicy. His lips gently grazed her right cheek and if he had not laid his hand under her elbow, the light in his eyes would have buckled Holly’s knees, sending her right into his arms in front of the entire cast.
“As good as gold and better,” Grayson/Bob answered with far more tenderness in his voice than before. “He said he hoped that when the other people in the church saw him, a crippled child, they would remember at Christmas who healed the lame and made the blind to see.”
And then incredibly, his voice br
oke, and his eyes filled with tears. Holly instinctively reached into her dress pocket for a handkerchief, took it out, and gently dabbed the area under his eyes. “Don’t cry, my dear,” she said softly. “Please don’t cry.”
He gave her a lopsided smile and then placing his hands on her arms, leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead. If he had not been holding her in place, Holly would have soared right up to the ceiling and through the roof, straight to Heaven.
“Oh, I say, that’s brilliant!” Matthew shouted from down in front. “Absolutely brilliant!”
“Can we please get on with it?” Theo called, brushing the front of his Scrooge’s ratty dressing gown.
“It is getting rather late,” Priscilla agreed, adjusting her silk flowered crown. “And Grandpapa wants Grayson to come to dinner this evening to talk about the new roof for St. Martin’s.”
“Right you are,” Matthew agreed. “Cratchit children, back on stage please.”
The rest of the rehearsal finished without incident, but keeping his gaze away from Holly Chamberlain nearly drove Grayson to distraction. Spending time with Priscilla Honeywell--pretty enough, mind you and a good actress to boot-- just to get a new roof for St. Martin’s seemed a bit much.
But the roof was in bad shape, with several leaks, the biggest one being right over the pulpit. If being a bit friendly —and only a very little bit, mind you—got St. Martin’s a new roof, then Grayson would do his best.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched forlornly as Theo Barrett helped Holly into her coat, called his goodbyes to everyone, and started to lead her out of the parish hall. His hand curled around a scrap of cloth, his fingertips finding a bit of lace along the edge.
“Miss Chamberlain!” He found himself darting toward her, ignoring the frown that seemed to be a permanent feature of Theo Barrett’s face.
But her eyes brightened as he stopped before them, and her smile was enough to tempt a man to do just about anything. “Yes, Mr. Clark?”
“You forgot this.” He held out her handkerchief. “I mistakenly put it in my pocket.”