The Hope of Christmas Past

by Stephenia H. McGee

  She fell through, landing in a tumble on the floor.

  Graceful like always. Groaning, she lifted herself on her knees, the dress tangling around her. Why had the painting changed her clothes? She looked down at herself from where she remained on all fours.

  Wait. Another dress? This one lacked the shimmer of the white one she’d worn inside the painting and tangled around her legs in a massive heap of heavy green fabric. She sat back on her heels. What in the world was going on? Grabbing handfuls of material, she snatched the mess away from her knees and struggled to her feet, falling twice in the process.

  She narrowed her eyes at the dress. Ridiculous. Utterly, completely, ridiculous. By far, this had to be the craziest dream she’d ever had. She didn’t remember going to sleep, but then, maybe the entire trip to Belmont was part of the dream.

  Groaning, she crossed her arms over the stiff fabric cinching her waist. White lace lined the seams along the tight, fitted top and then finished the hem of the long skirt. More green fabric fell from drapes around her waist in heavy folds. Pretty, though cumbersome. Long sleeves tapered down to her wrists, the sides lined with little white buttons.

  She looked like something from a Disney princess movie. The little girl in her skittered out of a cold corner and begged to twirl in the finery. Isla ignored her. Now wasn’t the time to be distracted by an overactive imagination and—

  “Oh! My goodness!”

  At the sound of the voice, Isla snatched her head up, heat flooding her cheeks for having been caught by one of the Belmont women wearing this unexplainably crazy outfit. Isla opened her mouth, but it remained unhinged without a single syllable slipping free.

  The woman who stood before her was neither the bubbly Camille nor witty Sandra. Instead, the person staring at her in astonishment looked so much like her mother that Isla’s heart nearly stopped. Hair the color of a perfect sunset cascaded in tight curls from a knot at the top of her head and swept down past her ivory cheeks and to the top of her shoulders. The woman’s hand fluttered to her throat, where she grasped at lace ruffles.

  “Who…who are you?”

  Isla took a step back. Who was she? Who was this woman who looked like Momma? And why were they both in old-fashioned dresses? Isla rubbed her temples.

  Wake up.

  “Excuse me, miss, but why are you in my house?”

  Heat radiated up Isla’s neck and scorched her cheeks. Her house? Whose house? Wasn’t she still at Belmont…? Something clicked. The outdated fashion. The nineteenth-century hair. The woman who looked like Isla.

  “Ella?”

  The woman’s jaw dropped. “You know me?”

  “Ella Remington, right?” Isla stepped forward, a strange excitement making her tingle.

  A spark lit in the woman’s eyes. “Oh! Are you the cousin from Atlanta?” She waved a hand and didn’t wait for Isla to answer. “Of course you are. Who else could you be? But my, you are a few weeks early, are you not?” She glanced behind her. “Did Basil let you in?”

  Ella had the strangest accent. It sounded partly Southern and partly Scottish. Isla could only stare at her.

  “Come, Dorothy, I’ll get us some tea.”

  The desire to lie, to be this Dorothy cousin of Ella, flooded her with such sudden intensity that Isla had to forcefully swallow it down. She wasn’t this woman’s family.

  Still…couldn’t she be whoever she wanted in her own dream?

  No. The truth. “Uh, I’m not Dorothy.” She shifted her weight. Ella remained silent, a single eyebrow quirked. “My name is Isla Laird.”

  Ella cocked her head. “Laird?” Her eyes brightened. “A right good Scottish name, certainly.” She grinned. “How did you come to be in my house, lass?”

  “Uh…” Isla stared at her. “I don’t know.”

  Ella laughed, disturbingly unconcerned. “Well then, Miss Laird, what brings you to Belmont?”

  A painting. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t?”

  Oh, boy. Even in a dream the truth sounded crazy. “I, uh, touched the painting.” Her cheeks heated as she forced the words through her lips. “Then I…um, then I fell through.”

  Ella’s eyes narrowed. Yeah, Isla knew how crazy it sounded.

  “But that’s not how I got in the music room.” She sighed. This was insane. “Look. I fell through the painting. Landed in some field under a tree. Then on the other side of that tree I saw another painting, one of this room”—she shrugged—“so I went through that and ended up here.” She stared down at her feet, even though she couldn’t even see them under all that heavy fabric. “I know that sounds stupid, even for a dream.”

  “Dream? I don’t believe I’m dreaming dear, so I…” Ella’s words trailed off and her eyes widened. But rather than call Isla out on her unbelievable story, she hurried across the room and grabbed both of Isla’s hands. “You’ve been to the tree?”

  Ella studied Isla’s face with such intensity Isla squirmed. “Yeah.”

  Ella leaned closer, her eyes sparking emerald fire. “And tell me, was it so vibrant you could barely stand the sight, so full of light and smelling of—”

  “Hope,” Isla whispered, unable to stop herself.

  Ella squealed. “You have been there!” She dropped Isla’s hands and spun in a circle. “Oh, to think!” She clasped her hands in front of her mouth, but it couldn’t hide the excitement on her face. “Did he send you? Did he have a message for me?”

  “He? He who?”

  Her face fell. “You didn’t see him?”

  Tingles skittered down her spine. Had she missed someone by the tree? “I didn’t see anyone.”

  Ella nodded slowly. “Even if you didn’t see him, it’s obvious he sent you to me.” She tapped her chin. “We will just have to discover why, of course.” She lifted her shoulders. “He always has a plan.”

  “Who?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “You’ll find out soon enough, I’m certain.” She brightened again and hurried past Isla in a sweep of blue fabric. “Is the entrance still there?”

  Isla watched as Ella hurried to where the painting hung and gently traced her fingers along the paint. Nothing happened. No shimmering lights, no open window to an imagined field. Ella turned back to look at her, disappointment tainting beautiful features.

  “I had hoped…” She shook her head. “Never mind. This time is about you.” She brushed her hands down her skirt and gave Isla an appraising look. “Tell me everything.”

  Everything? How was she supposed to tell everything to this woman who was either a dream or—

  “Ella, what year is it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s eighteen-eighty-eight, of course.” Her expression became dubious. “Why?”

  Isla glanced at the painting. Impossible. Had she stepped through Ella’s painting and wound up in the Belmont of the past? Why would she dream such a thing?

  But this wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be. Entirely impossible, but…she’d traveled back in time. No DeLorean needed.

  The absurdity of the situation hit her full in the gut, and she couldn’t stop a laugh from spilling out.

  “What do you find amusing?” Ella’s arched brow rose.

  Isla sobered. She better get ahold of herself. No telling what this meant. Jody could be having a heart attack by now, thinking there was a kidnapper in the house or something.

  “This is totally crazy.” She pointed around the music room. “The piano’s in the same place. But in my time, they have the painting on the other side of that window.” Now that she looked closer, the differences multiplied. “There’s flower wallpaper on that wall.” She pointed across the room. “And the other walls are a soft yellow. The furniture is kind of the same style but isn’t this, and Camille set it up differently.”

  Ella remained silent, her face calm. Like Jody.

  Maybe she could return later. Maybe Jody could even come with her. Wouldn’t she get a kick out of doing an old-fashioned Christmas for
real? Isla marched toward the painting, tripping once on the long hem of the skirt but righting herself before she fell.

  The brushstrokes remained immobile. No smells drifted from within, beckoning her to warm her soul in their light. Still, she reached forward and rested her hand on the tree that should feel like velvet.

  “It would seem,” Ella said from behind her, “that he is not ready for you to return.”

  Isla shifted again on the padded seat, eyeing the tea set nestled between herself and Ella. It wasn’t the same one they had at Belmont. Well, the other one. Her gaze darted from the fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth, to the massive wooden doors pulled closed to separate this room from the other parlor, to all of the rose-colored fabric wrapping each piece of low-sitting, fancy furniture.

  “Are you uncomfortable?” Ella’s voice had Isla’s focus returning to her hostess. The woman must have a thousand questions but seemed to have enough self-control to keep them tucked inside. Isla was having trouble doing the same.

  “No.” She picked at her nail polish. Silence settled again, thick and awkward. “What’s with the dress?”

  Ella cocked an eyebrow. “With it?”

  “I don’t know why I’m wearing it. You know?”

  Her hostess lifted the painted teapot, took her time pouring the steaming liquid into two delicate cups, then placed them on saucers. She handed one to Isla before speaking. “Do you dress much differently where you come from?”

  “Jeans are so much easier. I look like I’m going to prom or something.” Isla gave a nervous laugh and gripped the tiny teacup. With her luck, she’d break it.

  “Pardon?” Ella regarded her over the rim of her own cup. “What’s a prom?”

  Something she’d never been asked to. “Nothing important.” She shifted the topic. “Where’s your family?”

  Ella took a sip of her tea and smiled. “My husband, Westley, and our son, Lee, will be back from Greenville presently. My two daughters, Ailsa and Matilda, are visiting my dear friend Opal’s daughters at Riverbend and will return for supper.” Another friendly smile turned up her lips. “They’ll be delighted to meet you.”

  Interesting. “Is Lee the baby you saved when you pretended to be Westley’s wife, before”—she turned out her palms—“well, before you actually were?”

  Surprise flittered over Ella’s face but quickly disappeared. “I suppose he told you about that at the tree?”

  Isla shook her head. “Sandra told me. She helps with the bed and breakfast.”

  “Bed and breakfast?”

  “You know. Like a hotel?”

  Ella’s eyes widened. “You mean Belmont has been turned into an inn?”

  “Kind of. It’s really nice, though. And they do their best to honor the family and the house’s history.”

  Ella held up a hand. “Better I not know.” She studied Isla closely. “Hmm. Laird. If I remember correctly, we had distant cousins named Laird. Kin on my father’s mother’s side, I believe. They kept their Scottish name.”

  Interesting. Maybe they were related after all. Maybe that’s why she was here. To find her family, her identity. “What were their names?”

  “I’m not certain. Papa didn’t talk about them much. Something about clan disagreements and splits in the family. When he came to America, he changed his Scottish name and took an English one. I’m not sure why he thought such a thing would be advantageous, but Whitaker is the name he gave to me.”

  “What was it before?”

  She thought a moment. “McBain. Means son of Bain, a clan leader from the old days.”

  Isla tapped her teacup. “Do you know what my name means?”

  Her hostess flashed a smile, revealing straight teeth. “Laird? Certainly. Yours is an easy one. Laird is Celtic for the English word Lord. Like the nobility.”

  Nobility. She liked the sound of that. An orphan without anything else at least had the heritage of people who had been important. At some point, anyway. Maybe she could pull up one of those ancestry sites and find out more.

  “Isla is a beautiful Scottish name as well. It means island.”

  Island. Perfect. Like all alone. Separated. “My parents liked Scottish names. My middle name is Elsie, short for Elspeth.”

  Ella stared at Isla a moment before speaking again. “My grandmother’s name as well. It means chosen by God.”

  Warmth flooded her. Nice thought anyway. Even if she felt more forgotten than chosen.

  She settled back against the uncomfortable chair. Between that and the super tight dress, she felt as stiff as a cardboard cutout. “Hard to feel chosen when you’re an orphan.”

  “Widows and orphans have a unique place in the Lord’s heart. He promises special care for them.” Ella glanced toward the music room. Maybe toward the painting. “If I were to guess, I would say that’s precisely why you’re here.”

  “So you believe I’m from the future? Just like that?”

  Ella studied her again in a way Isla was quickly becoming familiar with. Seemed this woman took the time to think before speaking. “Any other person may not. Therefore, I would advise keeping that detail to ourselves when my family returns.” She brushed a hand down her dress. “I, however, have been to that tree. It makes me more open to all kinds of possibilities.”

  Isla set her teacup down and leaned forward. “You asked if I had seen him. Him who?”

  Ella smiled cryptically. “That’s for you to discover. I shan’t ruin it for you.”

  As quiet settled, the weight of her experience crashed into her. Isla shot to her feet. “Oh! I’ve been gone too long. Jody’s gonna have a duck fit.”

  “A duck?” Ella blinked and leaned forward. “Who is Jody?”

  “My foster mom.”

  “Foster mom?”

  Isla clenched her fingers and looked at the rug where it disappeared underneath the stiff boots on her feet. “You know. Foster mom. They’re people who take in kids who don’t have a family. But the state pays them to do it, so it’s just a job.”

  “A job?” Ella frowned. “There are no orphanages in your time?”

  Isla turned out her palms. “People get paid to keep unwanted kids, and a lot of them don’t do a great job.” Her conscience pinched. “Jody isn’t like that though. She’s actually a good one. But she’s not married, and I’m almost eighteen anyway.” The words tumbled out, probably making no sense to Ella. The fact that Jody never married didn’t matter. Truth was, she was a nice lady, and she didn’t deserve the chaos Isla usually put her through. All the poor woman wanted was a nice Christmas. Leave it to Isla to ruin it.

  Ella’s brow remained puckered. “I see.”

  Wow. Ella was talented if she’d understood that spew of words. “Anyway,” Isla said, struggling to her feet. “I better go. Don’t want to worry Jody.” Jody might think she’d run away again. Like the time when she’d been living at the Malorys’. But that had been different. Isla actually liked Jody.

  “I better go. But it was cool seeing you and all.”

  Ella nodded.

  A pang twisted in Isla’s chest. Stupid. Why had she actually thought Ella would ask her to stay? She was a stranger with an even stranger story. Ella was probably trying to be polite long enough for her husband to get home and kick the crazy girl out. What kind of nut job was she, anyway? Thinking that just because Ella looked like Momma and maybe, possibly, in some distant way they could be related, Ella would insist they were family and Isla must come and live here with them. In the eighteen hundreds without even electricity. Right.

  Had she gotten that desperate? She didn’t even know these people. And besides, she couldn’t leave Jody without an explanation. Even if the woman lied to herself about their relationship, at least Jody tried. Leaving Jody to think she’d gone missing or had run away wouldn’t be fair.

  She needed to go. It was the right thing to do.

  “You are welcome to try, if you must.” Ella interrupted Isla’s internal battle. “But I suspe
ct you’ll not find admittance again just yet, as I doubt anything has been accomplished in so short of a time.”

  What? “You think I’m stuck here?”

  “I think you are to remain until you learn whatever it is you need to learn, yes.” Ella sipped her tea.

  So she had to stay. Not her fault. Part of her welcomed the time here, and part of her stung with guilt for leaving Jody. Isla groaned. None of this made sense. Her insides were a mess.

  A warm hand settled on her arm, and Isla yelped.

  Ella had stood and crossed the room unnoticed. Now, she offered a gentle smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you unwell?”

  For some very strange reason, the question broke through another locked door somewhere deep inside and ripped at wounds still raw from neglect. The back of her throat burned.

  No. She would not cry.

  Before coming to Belmont, Isla hadn’t cried in two years. Not when the foster boy at the Malory house killed the kitten she’d found. Not when the girls at school ridiculed her. Not even last year when those girls had put dead flies in her lunch, her only meal of the day. She was stronger than all of that.

  Isla Laird did not cry. And certainly not because some stranger spoke gently. Or because that stranger reminded her of her mother.

  So why then did she feel utterly exposed and unnerved? Isla whirled away and hurried toward the painting. She needed to escape. Run away, find a safe place, and give herself time. Close the doors, fortify the internal walls. Protect herself.

  She dashed through the parlor doors, across the entry, and through the door to the cold music room, where no one had lit a cheery fire. The painting still hung on the wall, looking flat and dull and not at all like a portal to another time and place.

  Isla hurried to it anyway and thrust her hand forward, smacking her fingers against unyielding canvas. Tears burning in the back of her throat gathered force and moved to prick her eyes.