A brisk east wind kept Bill and the children indoors all day, so I put them to work in the kitchen. Bess’s gingerbread men were eccentric, to say the least, and I had to fend off repeated raids on my goody bags, but by the time we left for church, the cottage smelled as festive as it looked.
I felt a small pang of disappointment as we crossed the humpbacked bridge. Finch usually glittered like a gaudy tiara on Christmas Eve, but the absence of snow and the sparse decorations made it look a bit forlorn. The twinkling lights Grant and Charles had hung on their cottage were lovely, but they reminded me of the sad fact that most of my neighbors were too ill this year to hang lights on their homes.
Will and Rob were unaffected by Finch’s woes. To them, Midnight Mass was a golden opportunity to stay up well past their bedtime, to belt out their favorite Christmas carols, and—if they were lucky—to catch a glimpse of old Saint Nick flying high above the village. Though a spoilsport schoolmate had broken the news about Santa’s mythical status to them, and though they would have categorically denied his existence if asked, I knew why they kept their big brown eyes trained on the sky.
Predictably, Bill had to carry a sleeping Bess from the cottage to her car seat, but she was too dozy to kick up a fuss. When we arrived at St. George’s, Bill and the boys went ahead to set up her travel cot while I gently extracted her from the car and carried her though the churchyard and into the church.
I thought it a pity that she couldn’t appreciate the fruits of the labor she and I had put into decorating the church. The old-fashioned crèche, the red ribbons on the pews, the altar’s evergreen swags, the font’s Christmas roses, the sprigs of holly on the deep window embrasures, and the stout fir tree beside the pulpit had looked well enough in daylight, but by candlelight, they were magical.
In a break with tradition, we weren’t the last to arrive. After settling Bess in her cot, Bill, the boys, and I made the rounds, greeting Mr. Barlow, Tilly, Emma, Derek, Peter, Cassie, Kit, Nell, Grant, Charles, Lilian, the vicar, Henry Cook, Jasper Taxman, the Hobsons, and several others, including, much to our surprise, Bill’s father and stepmother. Amelia had apparently lifted the quarantine order she’d imposed on their stately home.
“My wife released me from captivity,” Willis, Sr., explained, “after I threatened to sneak out of the house and walk to church to attend Midnight Mass.”
“Don’t blame me if you catch the wretched virus we’ve so far managed to evade,” said Amelia.
“I have a signed affidavit stating unequivocally that I will never blame you for anything, my dear,” said Willis, Sr. In a rare public display of affection, he kissed her on the cheek before adding, “I will, however, point out that our grandchildren appear to be in perfect health, and that inviting them into our home for our traditional Christmas Day brunch will not be akin to asking Typhoid Mary to tea.”
“Of course you must come to Fairworth tomorrow,” Amelia said to us, laughing in spite of herself. “How else will you open the gifts Father Christmas left for you?”
Will and Rob, who’d already received a pair of pocket-sized presents from their indulgent grandfather, assured her that, if Mum and Dad didn’t drive them to Fairworth House on Christmas Day, they’d follow Granddad’s escape plan and walk. After Willis, Sr., granted his highly intelligent grandsons permission to open their early gifts, I saw to my relief that he’d given them rectangular magnifying glasses rather than pocket knives.
When I realized that Bree Pym and Tommy Prescott were nowhere to be seen, I pulled Mr. Barlow aside to ask him where they were.
“Bree slipped on a cobble and twisted her ankle,” he said. “Tommy’s binding it for her. They should be along any minute now.” His gaze shifted from me to Tilly, whom he’d escorted to the front pew despite her whispered protestations that she should be seated farther back.
“I see you’ve given Tilly a prime spot,” I said. “You’ve been a good friend to her since she arrived at Anscombe Manor.”
“I’m going to marry her,” he said softly. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she will.”
“When did you know it?” I asked.
“First time I laid eyes on her,” he answered. “There she was in her wrecked car, all shaken up and saying how sorry she was and looking like a lost puppy. She didn’t know she’d found her way to me”—he smiled—“but she will. Remember when she told us straight out that she didn’t think much of her name? Well, I’m fixing to give her a new one. I reckon she’ll like the sound of ‘Matilda Barlow.’”
“I reckon she’ll love it,” I told him.
I was about to squeeze his hand when the sound of Bree’s voice silenced the chattering congregation.
“Put me down, you idiot!”
“Sorry, boss,” said a much deeper voice. “No can do.”
Every head swiveled toward the south porch as the door opened and Tommy Prescott appeared, with Bree cradled in his massive arms. Her heavily bandaged right ankle protruded from her trouser leg, and a thick wool sock covered her exposed toes.
“Sorry we’re late,” Tommy said to his delighted audience. “Medical emergency.”
Bree buried her beet-red face in his broad shoulder as he carried her to a pew and set her down as carefully as if she’d been made of spun glass. I turned my head to see Mr. Barlow beaming at them.
“Looks like she’s found the right lad,” I murmured.
“There’s no righter one,” he said with a satisfied nod.
“Go ahead, Padre,” Tommy called to the vicar as he seated himself beside Bree. “We’re the last ones.”
“An excellent suggestion, Tommy,” the vicar called back. “If you’ll all take your places?”
Those of us who were standing in the aisles shuffled into our pews, and those who were already seated picked up their hymn books. Since Selena Buxton wasn’t on hand to play the organ, Lilian took her place at the fine old instrument, and with a flurry of chords that were as familiar to the congregation as the chirps of chaffinches in the spring, the service began.
I’m afraid the boys and I weren’t as attentive as we should have been, but since our family always sat in the last pew, we didn’t draw attention to ourselves. Between carols, Will and Rob employed their magnifying glasses to examine their hands, their clothes, Bess’s cot, and the back of the pew in front of ours.
I tried to concentrate, but every time I caught sight of Tommy smiling down at Bree or Mr. Barlow sharing a hymnal with Tilly, my imagination soared. Bill had to tug on my coat to remind me to sit for the vicar’s sermon.
I suspected that Lilian had told her husband the tragic tale we’d heard at Leyburn Farm, because he concluded his traditional Christmas message with a heartfelt plea to stand fast against bigotry.
“If we look upon those we meet with the eyes of the Christ child, we will see the love that binds us and reject the poison of prejudice that blinds us to God’s light. We will see God’s love shine forth from every face as brightly as the star that guided great kings and humble shepherds to the manger. We will love one another as God has loved us, and by so doing, we will keep faith with the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, the child born this day in the city of David, the savior, which is Christ the Lord.”
I’d seldom been prouder of my vicar. He’d spoken the words I would have spoken, if I’d had his eloquence. A true man of God, his heart was big enough to hold people of all faiths and races.
I made my feeling known to him later on, after the boys had run outside to distribute the goody bags. He credited Lilian with inspiring him, and she in turn credited Cissy and Madesh.
“How much happier they would have been had they lived at a time when differences were celebrated as gifts from God,” she said.
“Let me know when that time comes,” I said. “I’m afraid we still have a long way to go.”
“As long as we keep moving in the right directi
on,” said the vicar, “we’ll get there.”
There was a fair amount of mingling after the service, but Bree wasn’t among the minglers. Tommy Prescott, declaring that he had to get ice on that ankle, carried her away before anyone had a chance to speak with her. Not that words were necessary. The look on her face when Tommy lifted her into his arms said everything that needed to be said.
The look on Mr. Barlow’s face was equally expressive as he stood chatting quietly with Tilly before the stout fir tree. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but as with Bree, the words didn’t matter. It was clear as day that, to him, at that moment, no one existed but the shy little middle-aged woman who’d captured his heart.
“There’s too much romance in the air,” I said to Bill. “We’d better leave before I swoon.”
I picked up Bess and Bill grabbed her travel cot. We were working our way toward the south porch when Will and Rob barreled into the church, shouting excitedly.
“Mum! Dad! Come and see!”
I could almost feel a frisson go through everyone who’d been at Emma’s party. The sense of déjà vu was uncanny.
“If there’s been another ice storm,” Bill muttered, “our sons are going to be known henceforth as the harbingers of doom.”
The cries that came to us from the churchyard sounded oddly joyful, however, and when we stepped outside, we found out why. A light dusting of snow had turned my forlorn village into a winter wonderland.
“Merry Christmas, love,” said Bill.
Bess didn’t stir as he bent his head to kiss me, and she continued to sleep in heavenly peace as we set out to savor the beauty of the silent, holy night.
Epilogue
April was a momentous month in Finch. On the sixth, Cassie Harris gave birth to a healthy baby boy, who was christened Peter Derek after his father and his grandfather. Within a heartbeat of making his acquaintance, Emma discovered that she was cut out to be a grandmother. Her lectures on how to refine my diaper-changing techniques began a few days later.
Happily, those who’d been afflicted by the Yuletide Blight had recovered fully, and those who’d left the village before the blight had struck had returned. A full complement of villagers transformed Peter Derek’s christening into a scintillating social occasion and inundated his proud parents with gifts ranging from an exquisite baby quilt to a sturdy all-terrain stroller.
In the meantime, the vicar read the banns of marriage for William Thomas Barlow and Matilda Susan Trout aloud in St. George’s; Bree Pym surprised no one by announcing her engagement to Tommy Prescott; and Bill’s tailor measured him for a new suit.
Mrs. Hilliard and a dozen other Pargetters descended on Anscombe Manor in mid-April. Emma, Lilian, Tilly, and I feted them with a luncheon that included several Indian dishes, then stood by solemnly while they took turns entering the priest hole to view Cissy’s Hindu altar in situ.
After experiencing the cold, the haunting darkness, and the pitiful isolation of Cissy’s hiding place, Mrs. Hilliard agreed to move the altar to Leyburn Farm, where it would be cherished as a poignant family heirloom. Before she left, she expressed her family’s gratitude to us by presenting each of us with a small replica of the golden heart. I placed mine on the mantel shelf in the study.
My gaze came to rest on it one evening in late April as I sat in a tall leather armchair before the hearth, with my stockinged feet propped on the ottoman and the blue journal open in my lap.
“Cissy took us on quite a journey,” I said. “From a priest hole in a Tudor chapel to a Victorian army compound in India to the farm where she was born and where she died. It’s a hundred years too late, but I’m glad the Pargetters are finally celebrating her love for Madesh.”
So am I. I’m also proud of you for making the celebration possible.
“Me?” I said. “I didn’t do anything. Tilly discovered the priest hole. Emma had the recipe. Lilian dug up the banns, and it was her idea to search the Dispatch’s archives. The only items I found there were Cissy’s birth date and a fantastic piece about a Victorian bogeyman called Spring-heeled Jack.”
What did Spring-heeled Jack have to do with Cissy?
“Absolutely nothing,” I said. “See? My only contribution to solving the Cissy mystery, if you can call it a contribution, was to insist that we go to Leyburn Farm.”
I disagree. Without you, Tilly wouldn’t have discovered the priest hole, Emma’s recipe would have meant nothing, Lilian wouldn’t have looked for the banns, and none of you would have had a reason to search the Dispatch’s archives or to go to Leyburn Farm. Credit where credit is due, Lori.
“But I’m not due any credit,” I protested.
Of course you are. You were responsible for the ice storm that brought Tilly to Anscombe Manor in the first place. Bill is quite right, my dear. You have a gift for attracting dreadful weather.
“Bill was joking!” I exclaimed.
So am I, Lori. If rotten weather followed you around, Peter Derek’s christening wouldn’t have taken place on a perfectly lovely spring day. Which is not to say that you contributed nothing to bringing Cissy and Madesh out of the shadows.
“I didn’t contribute anything of value,” I said.
You supported your friends, Lori. You were patient with Emma, you encouraged Tilly, and you sympathized with Lilian’s wish to take a much-needed break from her duties. The golden heart on the mantel may remind you of Cissy and Madesh, my dear, but it will always remind me that you have a heart of gold.
Miss Cecilia’s Besan Ladoo
Ingredients
2 cups chickpea flour
1 cup clarified butter
1 cup white sugar
2 teaspoons finely chopped pistachios
1 teaspoon finely chopped cashews
Directions
In a saucepan over medium heat, stir the chickpea flour and the clarified butter together until the mixture smells toasty, about 10 minutes. Set aside until cool enough to handle.
When the flour-and-butter mixture has cooled, stir in the sugar, pistachios, and cashews until evenly mixed.
Form the mixture into small balls the size of walnuts. Use some pressure when shaping the balls to keep them from falling apart.
About the Author
Nancy Atherton is the bestselling author of twenty-four Aunt Dimity Mysteries. The first book in the series, Aunt Dimity's Death, was voted "One of the Century's 100 Favorite Mysteries" by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. She lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
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Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Page 20
