Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells: A Stitch in Time holiday novella

by Kelley Armstrong

  Our son gives the question due consideration. “I think so. I do know what happened to him, so if I see the navy men, I know it is time not to look.” He stops and peers down the moonlit road. “But I should like to see the pirate, Mama.”

  I sigh. My gaze goes to August. Earlier, I’d reminded myself that August has been the only parent Edmund has known. Now I must remind myself that I have been the parent of a young boy for a mere two months. Edmund is learning to accept me as his mother, and I am learning to be one.

  Here is one of the hardest challenges of parenting, as I am quickly discovering. Knowing when to allow a child to do a thing, trusting they have the maturity to do it, all the while praying they do not look back two decades later, horrified by what you allowed. In short, finding the balance between encouraging independent thought and not psychologically scarring your offspring for life.

  I do not want him to see a pirate die, even if it is a spectral replay. However, I do trust that he doesn’t want to see that part, either, and that he will have enough advance warning to avoid it.

  I’m still working this through when Edmund stops short. He stands there, staring down the empty road.

  “Do you see him, Mama?” he whispers.

  I quickly rearrange my features to hide my trepidation. My son is a five-year-old child seeing a pirate ghost. I may not have been parenting for long, but whether it is the twenty-first century or the nineteenth, I know how exciting it would be. I can only imagine Miranda at his age seeing such a thing. She would have been ecstatic, and while my son may be much more restrained in his emotions, he must be equally so, and I must share this excitement with him.

  I crouch beside him and peer down the road. “I do not. Is it the pirate?”

  He shakes his head. Then he turns and whispers in my ear, “I think it is Santa Claus.”

  How much does my heart soar at that? Not the idea of seeing Father Christmas, but the fact that my son whispers it to me. He knows it may sound foolish, and like his mother, he hates looking foolish. Yet he trusts that moment with me. Oh, he’d trust the same of August, but August is not bending here with an ear to be whispered in.

  “What do you see?” I ask.

  “It is a man in a sleigh,” he says. “A proper sleigh, with a horse. Like Uncle William’s. But it is not Uncle William. It is an old man with a white beard.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “He is stopped near Aunt Bronwyn’s car. He is looking at it, I think.”

  “Hmm. That is a mystery. Should we draw closer?”

  Edmund nods and reaches up to take my hand. Then he takes August’s in his other, and the three of us walk down the middle of the snow-covered road. As we draw near, I swear I catch the stamp of a hoof and the jingle of a sleigh bell. The road, however, stays empty.

  “Hello,” Edmund calls as we near the convertible.

  A moment’s pause. Then Edmund says, “Yes, I can see you. You are driving a sleigh with a brown horse.”

  I let out a held breath. If the ghost is communicating, it is not a death echo.

  Edmund looks up at me. “He wishes to know if you can see him, Mama.”

  “I cannot.”

  “She did hear your bells,” Edmund says, turning back to the ghost. “That was earlier. Were you here earlier?”

  The man must say something, and Edmund nods. As I watch, something flickers. At first, it is only a shimmer. Then I can make out the faintest image of a man standing beside a sleigh.

  “Can you see him now, Mama?”

  “A little, yes,” I say.

  “And I see nothing but a snow-covered road,” August says. “Alas.”

  “Because you do not have the Sight, Papa. Mama has a little.” Edmund rises onto his toes. “There are presents in your sleigh, sir. Are you Santa Claus?”

  The man laughs and shakes his head. He is perhaps in his sixties, with a white beard, a dark overcoat and a fur hat.

  The man’s mouth moves. Edmund waits until he stops speaking and then says, “Can you hear him, Mama?”

  “I cannot, unfortunately.”

  “He says he is from . . .” Edmund looks back at the man. “Nineteen-oh-three. He was going to visit his daughter and her family for Christmas when he was caught in a snowstorm.”

  “Oh no!” I say. “Was he all right?”

  I know the answer, but I still ask. The man says something, and Edmund shakes his head.

  “He was thrown from the sleigh. He says it did not hurt at all. He went to sleep and woke as a ghost. Then it was another day, another snowstorm, and he . . .”

  Edmund’s face scrunches as he listens intently. “He found someone caught in the blizzard. A boy on a horse. The man went for help and forgot he was a ghost, but somehow, a person seemed to know what he meant, and they came and found the boy.”

  “So he saved him. That is a wondrous thing.”

  The ghost shrugs, throwing off the compliment. Then he says something more.

  “That is what he does,” Edmund says. “He comes back during storms looking for people in trouble. He finds those who can help, and they don’t seem to hear him, but they know what to do. It is magic, like Santa Claus, but better because he brings help instead of presents.”

  The ghost makes a face and says something, as if laughing it off.

  “He says he does not have the chance to help as much these days. People seem to magically bring help all by themselves.”

  I smile. “Mobile phones. They are able to summon assistance.”

  “Sometimes they cannot, and he helps, but most times he just watches, and he is glad they are safe.”

  The ghost waves at the car, and Edmund says, “Oh, that is ours. Well, it is actually my aunt’s. We are staying someplace warm until morning. But thank you for coming to check on us.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Thank you very much, sir. We appreciate such kindness.”

  He speaks again, and Edmund says, “He wishes to know if we need him to summon help.”

  “Thank you, but no. We shall be fine. Is there anything we can do for him? I suppose he does not often get a chance to speak to someone with the Sight. Is there something he needs us to do? To help him cross over?”

  Edmund listens and then shakes his head. “He says he can cross over, and he does. He only comes back for snowstorms.”

  “I understand. Is there anything else we can do?”

  The man laughs and speaks, still smiling.

  “He says he doesn’t suppose we know any Christmas carols,” he says. “That is one thing he misses. People going Christmas caroling.”

  Edmund listens again and continues, “He says around here, they used to dress up in their holiday best and go from door-to-door, singing Christmas songs.” He glances at me. “Like they do in London.”

  “Yes, it is not a custom much practiced in the twenty-first century,” I say. “However, I do believe we may be able to accommodate you, sir. We know a few songs and . . .” I unzip Bronwyn’s heavy coat. “When the storm struck, we were on our way to a fancy-dress party. Would you settle for Victorian Christmas carolers?”

  The man’s face breaks into a wide grin.

  “He says he should like that very much,” Edmund says. “Though we ought not to remove our coats in such weather.”

  “Oh, I think we can remove them for a song or two. It is sheltered here, and the night is not nearly as cold as it was with that wind.” I shrug off the jacket and tuck it inside the car as August and Edmund do the same. Seeing our outfits, the man’s smile grows even wider.

  “Now, sir,” I say. “Do you have any requests?”

  10

  It is morning. The morning after a truly magical night, and we sleep in until the sun is fully risen over the horizon. August manages to pull yet more candy from his pockets—dear Lord, how much did the man take? We eat that with water from the taps, and as we do, Edmund says, “Ought we to leave a gift, Mama? For the people who live here?”

  I smile. “I plan to.
Did you have anything in mind?”

  “I thought we might tidy the barn.”

  I have to laugh at that. “Yes, I believe it could use a bit of a tidy. Let’s give it a quick one, and then we’ll be off.”

  We spend perhaps an hour cleaning up. As we finish, I find a pencil on the workbench and turn over an advertisement page left for fire starter. On the back, I write a note, explaining that we had to take shelter in their barn overnight, and we tried to leave it better than we found it, in hopes they’ll forgive the trespass.

  I also plan to leave my brooch. It is a simple one, not worth much, but they might find the “antique” a pretty bauble. As I remove it, though, I hesitate, realizing it was my grandmother’s. After last night’s memories, that gives me pause.

  “You do not need to leave that,” August says when he sees what I’m doing.

  “I have others from her, and I really ought to leave some token of thanks.”

  He removes his stickpin and lays it on the note instead. It is a much more valuable piece of jewelry, and I thank him for that.

  “It only gives me an excuse to buy another,” he says.

  We leave the note with the stickpin on top, and then we head out into the bright winter’s morning.

  “Now this is a proper white Christmas,” August says as he ducks to grab a handful of snow.

  “The snow will stay, yes?” Edmund says.

  “Tonight is Christmas Eve. It is cold enough to last until at least Christmas Day.”

  August fashions a loose snowball and flings it at Edmund, who yelps and ducks and dives for his own handful. I join in the game, and we continue down the lane, lobbing snow at each other and laughing.

  How many times did I dream of moments like this? Trapped on this side of the stitch, watching children playing in the snow with their parents, and imagining August doing the same with Edmund, knowing he would, which was wonderful, but it nearly broke me with razor-sharp yearning. I would have been that parent, too. I would have thrown snowballs with my children and laughed and been silly in a way I have never been with anyone except August.

  Now I have these moments. Endless ones. A half dozen in just the last twelve hours. Teaching my husband to drive a motor vehicle. Eating candy for dinner. Playing dreidel with my family. Caroling on a winter’s night. Sleeping in a haystack together. Throwing snowballs in the sunshine. We are having an adventure we shall remember forever.

  Will I ever stop pausing to marvel at these moments? Stop freezing them for memories, my eyes prickling with joy? I’m sure the novelty will fade, just as that pang of remembered fear will fade, and that is not a bad thing.

  This is my normal, and I only hope I never quite forget how much I wanted it. That doesn’t mean I’ll never allow myself to be cross or annoyed or frustrated with my family, no more than I’d never expect them to feel the same about me—we wouldn’t be human if we did not clash sometimes. It’s the ordinary moments like this that I hope will always hold their luster . . . while losing their pain of old grief and fear.

  There is grief and fear. I woke up last night thinking I was alone in this world again, and that is far from the first time I’ve done so. I hate using the word trauma for what I experienced. It should be reserved for all those who have gone through so much worse. After all, I am healthy and whole, back living my privileged life with my wonderful family. To call what I went through trauma feels like stubbing my toe and declaring I need a week in bed.

  I did more than stub my toe. Something in me is damaged. So very damaged. Perhaps it’s time to read whatever book Bronwyn slipped through for August. It is definitely time to acknowledge my trauma to him.

  I am damaged. I’m healing, but I’m not whole. Not yet. And neither are you. I acknowledge both those things. I was trapped here, and you were left there, having no idea what became of me, fearing the worst, that your jealousy drove me away, either to my death or to some far off place where I could start again.

  We continue playing our snowball game as we run along the road. We’re heading for the car, to try again getting it running, and if that is not possible, I have a note to leave in the windshield. Not that anyone is likely to presume such a gorgeous car has been abandoned. After a storm, they’ll understand what happened, but I will still take extra care, just as I did with the barn. These things belong to others, and I used them without permission, and so I will do my utmost to ensure there is no fallout from my actions.

  “Uh, Rosie . . . ?” August says.

  I stop, snowball in hand. “You surrender?”

  “No, but is that not where we left Bronwyn’s car?”

  I turn to follow his finger. When I see nothing but white snow, I shake my head. “It must be farther up.”

  “No, here is where we stood last night to sing.”

  He points to a trampled part of snow at the side. Just beyond it, tire marks head off the road.

  The lane is no longer the pristine white of last night. Several cars have passed, now that it’s daylight and the storm is gone. I can still make out our footprints, yet there is another pair as well. The boots of someone who circled the car and then, if I am correct, climbed into the driver’s side.

  A terrible thought strikes me.

  “Did you—?”

  I stop myself. I was about to ask whether he left the keys in the ignition, which sounds as if I am blaming him. I was the one who put them there. I am the one who understands that they must be removed before leaving a car.

  I rephrase it carefully. “There were keys in the ignition. I don’t remember taking them out.”

  He winces. “Because you were busy making sure everything was shut off. I saw the keys, and I meant to ask if we needed to take them. I did not.”

  “Without the keys, we didn’t lock the doors, either. I am accustomed to new vehicles, which use a remote lock. This one requires the actual key. I left the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition on a very empty road.”

  “Someone stole Aunt Bronwyn’s car?” Edmund’s eyes round.

  “I think so,” I say. “Because I was not careful.”

  “No,” August says. “Because I had just crashed during a snowstorm, and we were both far more concerned with getting our son to shelter than looking after an object that cannot perish from cold.”

  I still sigh, slumping, and August pats my back.

  “Merry Christmas, Bronwyn,” I mutter. “I borrowed your car, crashed and left it to be stolen.”

  “I will fix this,” August says. “I have been looking for an excuse to magically disappear some of the ugliest paintings in Courtenay Hall. They shall travel through the stitch, where someone with money and no taste shall snatch them up at auction, and Bronwyn will get a new car.”

  I bite my tongue against saying that does not change the fact we lost hers. I should not have borrowed it. I can come up with a dozen excuses why I thought it was acceptable, but it was not.

  I will throw myself on her mercy and beg forgiveness. In recompense, besides replacing the car, I’ll stay a few extra days to help with baby Grace and let Bronwyn sleep. I may have missed most of Edmund’s early years, but I do remember how badly I missed sleep.

  “What do we do now, Papa?” Edmund asks.

  “We walk to Thorne Manor. Do you think you are up for it, Edmund?”

  He straightens. “I am. It is not overly far.”

  August and I exchange a look. It is at least five miles. If it were closer, we’d have walked back last night. Still, the sun takes the chill from the air. When Edmund tires, we’ll rest or carry him.

  I peer down the road and brush off Bronwyn’s snowy gloves. “All right then. To Thorne Manor we go.”

  11

  We’ve made it only as far as the end of the road when Edmund spins, staring back the way we came. Then, without a word, he takes off at a run.

  “Edmund!” I say.

  We both race after him. He doesn’t go far before he stops, staring down the empty road.

&nb
sp; “Edmund?” I say.

  He glances back. “Do you not see him?”

  “See who?”

  He turns back to the road, his voice an awed whisper. “The pirate.”

  I crouch beside Edmund as August does the same on his other side.

  “He is walking this way, along the road,” Edmund says. “He has a sword. Papa, he has a sword.”

  “A sword? Well then, he is indeed a pirate.”

  “Only he does not look like a pirate from books,” Edmund says. “He walks like a soldier.”

  “I bet he was a privateer,” I say.

  “Not a pirate?”

  August chuckles. “That would depend on who you ask, Edmund. Privateers sailed the high seas and raided enemy ships for the Crown.”

  “State-sanctioned pirates,” I say with a smile.

  “So, he is a good pirate?” Edmund says.

  “Yes, we will call him that. A good pirate.”

  “He has the same skin color as Papa’s friend, Mr. George, in London. Does that mean he is also from Africa?”

  “He might be. Or he might be from the islands. Or he might be from England, just like you, with parents or grandparents or great-grandparents who came from elsewhere, as mine did.”

  Edmund nods, still staring at the privateer.

  “Aunt Miranda thinks he is very handsome,” Edmund says. “Dashing, that is how she puts it. Dashing and swashbuckling.” He wrinkles his nose at me. “What does swashbuckling mean?”

  “Daring and romantic. Does he look swashbuckling to you?”

  He peers at the ghostly replay of the privateer who, judging by the angle of Edmund’s gaze, is nearly upon us.

  “I suppose so?” Edmund says. “He looks very de-determined.” A glance my way. “Is that the word?”

  “It is if he looks as if he has someplace to be and he does not want anyone getting in his way.”

  August says, “Like your mama when Surrey jumps on the table and Mama wants her off it.”