A Texas Kind of Christmas

by Jodi Thomas

  “Thank you,” the woman said, reaching for the ornament.

  “I’d be so very grateful if you could point me to Mrs. Cockrell.” Birdie smiled brightly but held the ball out of the woman’s reach.

  The woman watched Birdie’s hand as she moved the ornament lightly through her fingers. It seemed impossible that Birdie wasn’t dropping it, but the ball continued to balance perfectly. A hush descended on the lobby and the woman took her eyes off the ornament long enough to see what was going on, then turned back and looked Birdie in the eye.

  “You’re in luck,” the woman said. “Mrs. Cockrell just walked into the lobby. Just follow the bowing and scraping.”

  “Thank you,” Birdie said, tossing the ball back to the uniformed woman. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  Birdie turned toward a small woman she could barely glimpse among the crush of people vying for her attention. How was she ever going to get Mrs. Cockrell to notice her in the middle of all these people? Birdie once more made sure every strand of hair was still tucked neatly in the embroidered scarf and tried to muscle through the crowd. She was not used to the aggression of Americans—even these Texans, who had only been Americans since the state was ratified fourteen years earlier. She put her suitcase in front of her, using it as a sort of battering ram. She needed a job. She could out-Texan these Texans if she had to.

  She shouldered her way into the crowd, but suddenly stopped dead as she ran into . . . something. She looked up to see a wall of a man who stood between her and Mrs. Cockrell. He was handsome in his military uniform. He didn’t need the stripes on his sleeve to announce he was an officer—his confidence and bearing attested to that.

  “Can I help you with something?” the officer asked, steadying her.

  He was staring into Birdie’s eyes with a hint of a smile. If he thought he could dissuade her from getting to Mrs. Cockrell, he was mistaken.

  “I need to speak with Mrs. Cockrell,” Birdie said, staring back at him.

  Poised for a fight, Birdie was surprised when the man stepped aside and she found herself face-to-face with the stranger who could give her a job and, even though it was a sprawling hotel, a place she could call home.

  “Mrs. Cockrell,” Birdie said in a strong, clear voice. She noticed the army officer was watching her with interest. “May I have a word, please?”

  “Yes?” Mrs. Cockrell asked in a honeyed voice.

  Birdie’s mind froze. She hadn’t actually expected Mrs. Cockrell to answer her. Birdie spent so much of her time trying to not be seen, she thought she’d made herself invisible. But Mrs. Cockrell had heard her and was waiting for her to speak.

  Birdie knew she had only a moment to make an impression. She felt her head swim.

  She fainted at the hotel owner’s feet.

  * * *

  Birdie’s sense of smell was the first of her senses to return. She breathed in the scent of warm tea. Then she felt a gentle touch on her cheek. In her dreamlike state, she thought for a moment she was home, asleep in her feather bed, and the delicate touch was that of her mother. A contented sigh escaped her before reality came rushing back. She remembered fainting in the lobby of the St. Nicholas Hotel! Her eyes sprang open and she bolted into a sitting position. Mrs. Cockrell had been leaning over her, but she took a tiny step backward as Birdie sat up, wild-eyed.

  “You’re all right? You scared us,” Mrs. Cockrell said, putting a hand on Birdie’s shoulder. “Take it easy. You might still feel dizzy if you spring up.”

  Birdie’s head swam. Springing up was not in the cards. She wanted to lie back down, but she’d already made enough of a scene, so she just propped herself against some cushions and watched Mrs. Cockrell pour a cup of tea. While the hotel owner busied herself with the teapot, Birdie looked around the room. She was in a large office with beautiful furniture, opulent curtains, and fresh flowers. Birdie had never seen such elegance.

  Mrs. Cockrell brought a tray with delicate blue-and-white-patterned china over to her. Birdie tried not to stare at the tiny sandwiches and steaming tea being offered.

  “I had a feeling you might be hungry,” Mrs. Cockrell said, sitting on the sofa beside her.

  “A bit,” Birdie managed.

  She wanted to tip the entire plate of sandwiches into her mouth, but, with trembling fingers, picked up one perfectly cut triangle and forced herself to turn it into three ladylike bites. She was so hungry she couldn’t tell what filling was between the two pieces of bread. She took another sandwich off the plate as Mrs. Cockrell poured some tea. Birdie suddenly noticed her bag propped against a side table. Then she noticed her hat was sitting on the table itself. She reached up frantically to make sure her headscarf was still in place.

  It was.

  “Captain Newcastle carried you up here,” Mrs. Cockrell explained. “He removed your hat, but I suggested he leave your headscarf. I assume anyone who wears a scarf under a hat probably wants to keep it on.”

  Mrs. Cockrell passed her a cup of tea, apparently not requiring an explanation of the elaborately embroidered headscarf. Birdie sipped at the tea demurely.

  “Thank you,” Birdie said. “And I will have to thank Captain. . .”

  “Captain Newcastle,” Mrs. Cockrell said. “You’re a very lucky woman. When word gets out that Captain Newcastle came to your aid, I guarantee there’ll be a rush of fainting young women in the lobby every time he’s here.”

  Birdie felt her cheeks flush. This was not the impression she’d hoped to make. She took another sip of tea. She decided it was time to change the subject.

  “I was hoping . . .” Birdie said, realizing her voice sounded weak. She took a deep breath and tried again. “I know the ball is coming right up, and I was hoping you might need an extra girl.”

  She forced herself to look in Mrs. Cockrell’s eyes. She knew the look she saw there. It was pity. There was a time when she would have shrunk from that look. Pride would have made her stand up, thank Mrs. Cockrell for her time—and sandwiches—and be on her way. But she didn’t have that option now. She didn’t care how or why Mrs. Cockrell gave her a job—as long as she gave her one.

  “I have references,” Birdie continued, putting the teacup down and reaching for her valise.

  Mrs. Cockrell waited as Birdie rummaged through her bag with trembling fingers. Finally, she drew her tattered letter out of the bag and handed it to Mrs. Cockrell. Mrs. Cockrell took a pair of reading specs out of a pocket hidden deep in the folds of her dress.

  “So you worked on a farm in Ireland, did you, Brigid Flanagan?” Mrs. Cockrell asked.

  “Birdie,” Birdie said.

  She was about to say “My friends call me Birdie,” but she was very much without friends—and frankly, Mrs. Cockrell probably had no interest what her friends called her. She started again.

  “Most people call me Birdie,” she said.

  “All right, Birdie then. So you worked on a farm.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Birdie said, realizing it was hardly an obvious endorsement for a job in a hotel. “But I did more than farm-work. I did laundry, I cooked, I—”

  “We’ve hired a full staff,” Mrs. Cockrell said, handing the letter back to Birdie. “I’m sorry. I really am. But we’ve had so many applicants . . .”

  Mrs. Cockrell’s voice trailed off. Birdie could imagine Mrs. Cockrell had to give this bad news to girls several times a day. Why should Birdie’s plight be any different?

  Birdie took the letter back, trying not to cry.

  “I understand,” Birdie said, standing up and tucking the letter back into her bag. “And thank you so much for your . . .”

  She hesitated. What should she say? Although she was crushed about the rejection, she really hadn’t expected anything to go her way. Nothing had gone her way since she landed in America. But this woman had been so kind.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Birdie said, feeling it was the perfect word.

  “I wish I could be of more help.”

 
Birdie managed a tight smile and a nod. She believed her. She picked up her bag and her hat and headed toward the door. Her feet were at least solid beneath her. No need to have Captain Newcastle carry her back to the lobby, she thought grimly.

  At the door, she stopped for a moment to put on her hat, taking advantage of a mirror hung nearby. She tried not to be obvious, but she noticed Mrs. Cockrell studying her.

  “Your scarf,” Mrs. Cockrell said.

  Birdie closed her eyes. Perhaps she was going to have to come up with some explanation after all for why she wore a scarf under her hat.

  “Did you do that embroidery yourself?”

  “I did,” Birdie said, hoping to end the conversation.

  “It’s extraordinary,” Mrs. Cockrell said. “And I noticed embroidery on your sleeve cuffs. Also your work?”

  Birdie nodded. She turned around to see Mrs. Cockrell writing on a cream-colored piece of paper. Birdie had never seen a pen quite like the one in Mrs. Cockrell’s hand. It appeared to have ink already in it! The pen made a scratching sound much like the chicken back at the farm. Mrs. Cockrell blotted the ink and handed the paper to Birdie.

  “Take this letter to Miss Monica Quigley in the basement,” Mrs. Cockrell said. “She is our head seamstress. I’d never hear the end of it if I let you get away.”

  “Oh! Mrs. Cockrell,” Birdie gushed. “I can’t—”

  Mrs. Cockrell held up a hand.

  “Just do your best,” Mrs. Cockrell said. “Miss Quigley will not put up with anything less than perfection.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Birdie said. “You won’t be sorry you hired me.”

  “You’re hired if Miss Quigley says you’re hired.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, if Miss Quigley hires me, you won’t be sorry she hired me.”

  “Make sure of it,” Mrs. Cockrell said. She looked stern, but her eyes were twinkling. “Everyone in the hotel is afraid of Miss Quigley.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me,” Mrs. Cockrell said. “That woman could start a fight in an empty house.”

  Birdie was so overwhelmed with the idea that she actually had a job—if she passed muster with Miss Quigley—that she couldn’t remember leaving Mrs. Cockrell’s office. Back in the lobby, she realized she hadn’t asked how to find the head seamstress. She remembered that Mrs. Cockrell said the sewing room was “in the basement,” which certainly narrowed things down, but . . .

  Birdie stopped in her tracks. Captain Newcastle, standing head and shoulders above a crowd of adoring women, met her eye. Birdie’s thoughts momentarily shifted away from finding Miss Quigley as she had a fleeting memory of being swept up in his arms. She cursed her freckled skin, which she could feel growing warm as he smiled at her. She turned to find someone to ask about directions to the basement when she saw the captain breaking away from his admirers and heading her way. Frantically, she looked around for an escape route. She did not want to have a conversation with this man. Or any man, for that matter. She admitted he was incredibly handsome, but he looked like trouble.

  And she’d had enough trouble with men to last her a lifetime.

  “Miss,” Captain Newcastle said. “I’m Douglas Newcastle, captain in the United States Army.”

  The captain took her hand and kissed the back of it. In Ireland, a gentleman never kissed a lady’s hand unless it was offered. But here in America, it was not considered bad form for a man to lift the woman’s hand and brush his lips against it. She found it hard to get used to, especially when a man was as enticing as Captain Newcastle.

  “Yes, I know who you are,” Birdie said, keeping her voice calm.

  She noticed the envious glances from the cluster of women the captain had left behind.

  She tried to put the vision of him carrying her limp body to Mrs. Cockrell’s office and removing her hat out of her mind. The image seemed so intimate, her pink cheeks burned scarlet.

  “Mrs. Cockrell tells me you—” she continued.

  “No need to thank me,” Captain Newcastle cut her off. He gave a little bow. “Just doing my duty.”

  If he was just doing his duty, there was no need for Birdie to feel embarrassed. A twinge of disappointment tugged at her, but she squashed it. “My mother wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t thank you, so thank you very much.”

  “You may tell your mother I accept,” he said.

  Birdie could hear a few titters coming from the eavesdropping women.

  “I’d better be on my way then,” Birdie said, pushing past him.

  “Do you think your mother would mind if you had dinner with me?”

  Birdie was stunned. Had she heard him correctly?

  “Dinner? With you?”

  “Yes, dinner with me. Here at the hotel.”

  Birdie’s mind reeled. Dinner? A real dinner? What would they eat? This was Texas. Texas was famous for beef, wasn’t it? She could probably have a steak. And she would love a soup. She knew better than to have wine with a man, but perhaps dessert? She thought about the lovely puddings she’d had as a child.

  Captain Newcastle’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I’m hoping that silence is you deciding the answer is ‘yes’?”

  As hungry as she was, she could never agree to have dinner at the St. Nicholas with this man. The lobby was full of guests in their impeccable clothes. She would seem like a pauper.

  She was a pauper.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, walking away from him. “That’s very kind of you, but I really can’t.”

  She realized she had no idea where she was going, but she moved purposefully through the lobby. She was a woman on a mission. Even a mission starting in a basement was progress. She had nowhere to go but up.

  Chapter 2

  Once belowstairs, there was another labyrinth of confusing hallways constituting the basement. But Birdie finally made her way to the head seamstress’s office. The door was closed. Birdie stared down at her note from Mrs. Cockrell, to make sure it was real.

  The letter read:

  Dear Miss Quigley,

  May I introduce Miss Birdie Flanagan. I think you will find she has an extraordinary talent with a needle.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sarah Cockrell

  Compared to her tattered letter of recommendation from O’Connor’s Farm, Birdie felt she held a magic ticket. If the woman who owned the hotel and was practically a legend throughout Texas recommended her, Miss Quigley couldn’t very well refuse her.

  Could she?

  Birdie stood up straight and knocked on the door. She needed this job and she was going to get it.

  “Come through,” said a muffled voice.

  Birdie detected a slight Irish brogue. Perhaps that might work in her favor. Feeling a little more confident, Birdie opened the door.

  All confidence drained as she regarded Miss Quigley, a stern-looking woman who didn’t glance up as Birdie entered. Miss Quigley was working on a traditional Irish tatted lace design, one which Birdie knew was extremely difficult.

  “What is it you want?” Miss Quigley asked, still not looking up.

  Birdie wasn’t wrong about the voice. The woman spoke with a warm, rich brogue. Perhaps when Birdie spoke, her equally strong Irish accent might attract a glimmer of interest.

  “I’ve been sent by Mrs. Cockrell,” Birdie said, making sure she sounded as Irish as the day she landed in New York City.

  “Have you now?”

  If Miss Quigley felt a sister from across the waters had landed in her office, she kept it to herself.

  “Yes, ma’am. I have a letter.”

  Miss Quigley put the needle down and finally looked up at Birdie. Birdie stared down at the head seamstress, who still hadn’t risen from her chair.

  “Well then?” Miss Quigley asked. “Hand it over.”

  Birdie tried to keep her hand from shaking as she handed the letter to the head seamstress. While Miss Quigley read the letter, Birdie studied her. Miss Quigley’s graying hair was swept up in a bun
. She was probably in her early forties, no-nonsense in her demeanor and clothes, the only ornamentation a key on a thin chain around her neck, which hung smoothly over a prim, full skirted dress. Birdie found the seamstress’s lack of flair particularly interesting, since a quick glance around the room revealed that every inch was covered in opulence and glamour. Beautiful dresses, gowns, and men’s frock coats on hangers and dress forms made the small room look like a rehearsal for a party. There were boxes of lace, feathers, buttons, and more embroidery thread than Birdie had ever seen. There was even a sewing machine!

  Birdie was willing to take any possible job available at the hotel, but the thought of working in this room took her breath away. When she returned her gaze to Miss Quigley, the woman was looking sternly at her.

  “So. Mrs. Cockrell thinks you can sew, does she?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s too bad Mrs. Cockrell doesn’t know a thing about sewing.”

  Birdie’s spirits plummeted. She had to convince this woman to take her on.

  “She might not know anything about sewing, but she must know quality when she sees it.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Miss Quigley sniffed.

  “After all, she hired you.” Birdie smiled.

  Flattery was a sure way into almost anyone’s heart.

  “Don’t go trying to flatter me, girl,” Miss Quigley said, picking up her half specs off the table and pointing them at Birdie before perching them on her own nose. “I only care what you create with your needle, not your tongue.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The two women stared at each other. Birdie wasn’t sure what to do. The smell of stew wafting through the air distracted her. Finally, Miss Quigley broke the tension.

  “You have some samples to show me?” she asked impatiently.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Birdie said, jumping up and retrieving her bag. She pulled out two headscarves and a shawl. They were a little threadbare, but each showed a different skill—the shawl had a delicate lace edging and one of the headscarves was made from tatting, much like the technique Miss Quigley was using herself.