Upon the Midnight Clear

by Tasha Alexander

  “Is that for you to decide?” Colin asked.

  “It certainly isn’t for you to decide,” the vicar said. “This is a sensitive family matter.”

  Colin pulled himself to his full height and spoke, his voice resonating through the church. “And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.” I looked at him in astonishment, never expecting him to have had a Bible verse at the ready to quote. Reverend Smith smiled.

  “I’m not sure the context is quite what you think, but I take your meaning. I shall tell you where to find the Overtons but beg you to consider what to do with the information. Annalise believes her father is dead and adores her grandparents. To find out they’ve lied to her for all her life will be a stunning blow to her. I would not counsel you to have the man show up at the house unannounced.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Reverend,” I said. “Here’s what I propose: You come to the house with us. We will speak to the Overtons without Annalise and do our best to persuade them to let her meet their father. It could prove a most excellent lesson in forgiveness all the way around.”

  “What if they refuse to your request?”

  “We shall have to respect their wishes,” Colin said. “Although it would be deeply wrong of them to continue to keep a father from his daughter.”

  The vicar nodded. “You are quite certain the man is of good moral character?”

  “So far as I can see. Children need their parents, and as the father of three boys, I would not tolerate being cut out of their lives, no matter what my character.”

  “Very well. I shall accompany you to the house.”

  We set off from the churchyard, following the reverend to a snug house a short walk from Parsons Green. Above its front door hung a wooden sign: Pàrras air chall. The vicar knocked, and soon we were ushered into a neat parlor with large windows, beneath which six Wardian cases stood, filled with ferns. Mrs. Overton welcomed us, looked pleased to see Reverend Smith, and offered tea, which we refused.

  “I’m afraid we’ve come to discuss something you are likely to find upsetting,” Colin said. “Is your husband at home?”

  “He is, and will be down shortly.” All the years in London had not softened her Scottish accent. “What is this all about, Reverend Smith?”

  “These people are here because they know about the MacMasters of Edinburgh, Mrs. Overton. The time has come for you to reconcile with your past.”

  Tears sprung into the lady’s eyes, and her face lost all of its color. “I shan’t say another word until my husband is here.” A few moments passed before Mr. Overton—Dr. MacMaster—entered the room. The color drained from his face the instant he looked at his wife.

  “I can guess why you’re here.” He took his wife’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “We knew we couldn’t escape this day forever.”

  “How can you know why we’ve come?” the vicar asked.

  “We’ve carried a terrible burden for too, too long,” Dr. MacMaster said. “Strangers always put me on my guard. Strangers brought by you, Reverend Smith, must have convinced you of their moral imperative, and there is only one sin in my life great enough for that.”

  “Annalise,” I said.

  Mrs. MacMaster started to cry in earnest and sat back down. “You can’t take her from us. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “No one is suggesting that,” Colin said. “Her father came to us, begging that we help him find her. He is in a great deal of pain.”

  “He could have avoided all of it had he behaved as a gentleman should,” Dr. MacMaster said. “Not that he ever was a gentleman.”

  “Perhaps not,” I said, “but he does have the right to know his own child.”

  “He gave up that right when he killed our daughter.”

  I rose from my seat and went to him, placing a hand on his arm. “You’re a physician. You know better than anyone that Mr. Jones did not kill Catriona. Her death was a tragedy of the sort that happens with far too much frequency. She knew the risks as well as anyone and still chose to marry and have a child.”

  “I let her down,” he said, his voice ragged and shaking.

  “She couldn’t have been in better, more knowledgeable hands.” I met his eyes. “No one could doubt that you did everything possible to save her.”

  “It wasn’t enough.”

  “Yet it was all you—or anyone—could have done. You know too well the pain of losing a child. Mr. Jones carries that grief as well as that of losing a dearly beloved wife. It is in your power to free him from a part of his sadness. Can you find it in your heart to give him a measure of relief?”

  Mrs. MacMaster leapt to her feet. “No, no, I can’t bear it. He’ll take her away from us. He’ll—”

  “I shall not lie to you,” Colin said. “I cannot promise that he will not want his daughter to live with him. But neither can I know whether he will want to keep her in the safe, loving home in which she’s spent her entire life. What I can say with absolute conviction is that he loves his daughter and doesn’t want to see her suffer.”

  “We have no right to keep him from her, Maggie,” Dr. MacMaster said. “We’ve known it all along.”

  “I cannot lose her.”

  He took his wife in his arms; she sobbed against his shoulder.

  “Where is Jones?” the doctor asked. “Outside?”

  “No, we wouldn’t ambush you like that,” Colin said. “We are in contact with him. It’s for you to decide what to do next.”

  “Reverend Smith, what is your counsel?” Mrs. MacMaster asked, lifting her head.

  “You must look into your heart and do what it tells you is right.”

  “And give up my dearest girl? Annalise knows no other family.”

  “You have the opportunity to give her the greatest Christmas gift,” I said. “Her father.”

  “She will despise us for having kept her from him. Perhaps if we can get him to agree to say that we truly believed he was dead—”

  The vicar interrupted her. “I do not think piling on more lies will see you to a happy end.”

  “Did you register your granddaughter’s birth?” Colin asked.

  “I did,” the doctor replied. “It is required.”

  “And you listed the names of her parents?”

  “Aye.”

  “So the law would not come down on your side,” Colin continued. “Isn’t it better to come forward now and try to make amends? Reach some sort of understanding with Mr. Jones?”

  “You’re asking me to believe that he might behave better to us than we did to him?” Dr. MacMaster shook his head and closed his eyes. “Only a fool would hope for so much.”

  “Annalise knows you and loves you both,” I said. “She’s not an infant. She will not tolerate being cut out of your lives.”

  “Only if she can forgive us for what we’ve done,” her grandmother whispered.

  “You’ve raised her well,” Reverend Smith said. “Have some faith in the girl.”

  “May we have some time to consider our options?” Dr. MacMaster asked.

  “Will you give me your word that you won’t flee?” Colin looked him in the eyes.

  “I will. Will you give me your word that you will not alert Jones to the situation until you hear from me?”

  “I give you my word.”

  “Then I will trust you.”

  Colin pulled a silver case from his jacket and removed from it a card that he handed to Dr. MacMaster. “Let me know your decision as soon as possible.”

  We took our leave, but the vicar stayed behind. I hoped he could persuade his parishioners to do the right thing.

  7

  We passed two tense days waiting to hear from Dr. MacMaster, all the while having to put off Mr. Jones’s inquiries as to our progress with the case. It was only ten days until Christmas, and I hoped the matter could be settled before the holiday arrived. As it was Sunday, I’d taken
the boys to services at Westminster Abbey, and we’d spent the bulk of the afternoon in the library, Colin reading aloud from Bulfinch’s Mythology. The sun had set hours ago, and we had just finished with the story of Ceres and her daughter Proserpine when Davis announced two callers.

  “Dr. and Mrs. MacMaster to see you, sir.”

  “Bring them here and send in some tea as well,” Colin said, and then ordered the boys to the nursery, Richard taking Bulfinch with him.

  Our visitors’ faces showed signs of strain, and Mrs. MacMaster’s eyes were red-rimmed. She accepted the tea I poured, balanced the cup on her lap, but did not take a single sip.

  “This is the most difficult decision of our lives,” her husband said. “Realizing that showed me how callously we’d made previous ones. Had we sanctioned Catriona’s marriage, we would not have lost so much time with her, nor would we have subjected dear Annalise to the pain she has already suffered as well as that coming her way. We cannot change any of that, but we can try to put our family on a better path for the future. I need you, Mr. Hargreaves, to tell me what you can about Mr. Jones. Do you believe him an honorable man?”

  “I do,” Colin said. “He holds a respectable job with the Great Indian Peninsular Railway Company—and has done so since he first went to India.”

  “A railway, eh?” Dr. MacMaster asked.

  “He had hoped it might impress you.”

  “I didn’t give the boy a fair shot.”

  “Nor did he give you one,” Colin said. “They could have waited to marry. He could have found a job in Edinburgh, proved to you his worthiness as a potential husband to your daughter.”

  “They were young and thoughtless,” I said. “But I do think all of you have suffered enough punishment for the mistakes of the past.”

  “I agree,” Mrs. MacMaster said, her voice barely audible.

  “We would like to first speak with Mr. Jones without Annalise, if he would agree to do so,” Dr. MacMaster said. “But after that, we will not keep him from seeing her.”

  “Will you tell her about her father in advance of the meeting?” I asked.

  “We already did,” Mrs. MacMaster said. “Reverend Smith is at the house with her now. He helped us find the words. She’s very angry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “When would you like to see Mr. Jones?”

  “As soon as possible,” Dr. MacMaster said.

  “He’s at the Savoy.” Colin went to his desk. “I can ring him and have him here in half an hour, if not sooner.”

  The MacMasters looked at each other, their faces masks of pain. “There is nothing to be gained by delay,” the doctor said. “We’re ready.”

  We installed the terrified grandparents in the blue drawing room. Whatever Davis’s misgivings about the space, I find the Impressionist paintings hanging within wonderfully soothing. I hoped they would help calm the MacMasters’ nerves. In the meantime, Colin and I received Mr. Jones in the library and told him everything.

  “All this time … all this time.” He gritted his teeth and tried to maintain his composure.

  “The past is done,” Colin said. “Now it’s for you to decide what your daughter’s future will be. She adores her grandparents—although she’s furious with them now—and they’ve given her a good home. To wrench her entirely away from that…” He let his voice trail.

  “It would be cruel and vindictive.” Mr. Jones sighed. “But I do not know if I have the strength to do anything else.”

  “That is for you alone to decide,” Colin said. “Would you like me to bring them to you?”

  “No, I’ll go them. Would you be so kind as to accompany me, Hargreaves? And you as well, Lady Emily? I know the law is on my side, but that is not what matters in this situation, is it? For any of us to find happiness, our hearts will have to all be in the same place. I fear my anger may get the better of me. Having you there with me may prove a restraining force.”

  We led him to the blue drawing room, where the MacMasters were seated close together on a long settee. The doctor rose to his feet when he saw Mr. Jones, stepped forward, started to extend a hand, then pulled it back and stopped.

  “I have no right to ask you to take my hand,” he said.

  “Nor have I the right to expect you to offer it,” Mr. Jones replied. “I am ashamed of my past behavior.”

  “As we are of ours,” Mrs. MacMaster said, standing.

  “No, no, Mrs. MacMaster, sit,” Mr. Jones said. “You, too, Doctor. There are things I must say to you both. Over these past months, since I began to suspect my daughter was alive, my anger has blinded me. Rage consumed me. I wanted nothing more than to find her and wrench her from you. I am not proud of that, but at the same time believe it a reasonable reaction to the circumstances.”

  “We deserve no better,” Mrs. MacMaster said.

  “You called her Annalise, is that right?” Mr. Jones asked. She nodded. “It’s a beautiful name. Catriona would have loved it.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “I am still angry, still resentful. I have missed the first dozen years of Annalise’s life, and there is no way of getting that back.”

  “We can only apologize,” Dr. MacMaster said. “The burden of guilt is mine alone. My wife would never have embarked on such a reckless course of action on her own—”

  “No, Angus,” she interrupted. “We bear equal portions of the guilt.”

  “That is for you alone to decide,” Mr. Jones said. “As for me, I have concluded that I do not wish to do anything that will cause us all more pain. We lost our dearest girl, my darling Catriona, and that grief will never entirely fade. But now we have the chance to start anew. I condemn what you did in the past, but even so, I rejoice that you had the honor to keep your word to Mr. Hargreaves. You could have taken Annalise and fled again, leaving me bereft of hope. That you didn’t signals to me that it is time for us to reconcile. I will not take Annalise from you, but you must allow me to know her.”

  A sob escaped Mrs. MacMaster’s lips. “We don’t deserve your kindness.”

  “There will be no more talk like that. If we insist on clinging to our past sins, we will never find happiness. My parents are long dead, as is my wife. Annalise is my only family now, unless you will take me into yours.”

  “It would be an honor,” Dr. MacMaster said.

  Colin nudged me and whispered, “A Christmas miracle.” I smiled.

  Davis entered the room. “Miss Annalise Overton has presented herself at the door, sir. She is accompanied by the Reverend Smith. Shall I bring them here?”

  For a moment, I thought Mrs. MacMaster might faint. Then I saw how pale Mr. Jones was and wondered if he could benefit from smelling salts. They both managed to remain upright, however.

  “I think it would be best if we let the three of you have some time with Annalise,” I said. “Bring the girl here, Davis, and send the reverend to the library. We’ll meet him there. When you’re ready, the rest of you may join us. I, for one, am looking forward to making the young lady’s acquaintance.”

  * * *

  More than an hour passed before the MacMasters, Mr. Jones, and Annalise came to us in the library, the girl shyly holding her father’s hand. Within moments of them arriving, the boys presented themselves. Richard, who had put on his best Eton suit, looked quite the little gentleman as he stepped forward holding two large balls of crumpled paper painted a dark shade of pink.

  “We’ve heard your whole story, Miss Overton,” he said, “and I decided that gifts of pomegranates, to both your father and your grandparents, are the most appropriate to your situation. Ceres lost her daughter Proserpine to Pluto for part of the year because the girl ate pomegranate seeds. I bring two, because I believe you sinned not at all, and hope that each party will accept one of them to symbolically show that you belong to them both.”

  “They’re not real pomegranates,” Henry said, “but it was the best we could do on short notice. I blended the color of the paint myself.”

  “It’s a lov
ely gesture,” I said, and I believed it, even though I could not precisely follow my son’s reasoning on the subject.

  “Thank you,” Annalise said, taking both of the ersatz fruits from Richard. She was a beautiful girl, with dark auburn hair and green eyes. Richard stared at her like a starving man might stare at, say, pomegranates.

  “It is entirely my pleasure,” he said, still staring.

  “Want to come play with us in the nursery?” Henry asked. “It’s much more fun than down here.”

  “May I, Father? Grandmamma?” Both adults nodded. Henry took the girl by the arm and started to lead her to the door. Richard intercepted them.

  “I shall escort the lady.”

  Henry shrugged and raced off.

  “I believe we may have a problem on our hands,” Colin murmured to me.

  “Nonsense. Henry doesn’t give a fig,” I said.

  “That’s not what I meant. Richard is besotted.”

  “Richard is not yet six years old.”

  “He’s always been mature for his age.”

  “Not that mature.”

  He couldn’t reply, as Mr. Jones stepped forward.

  “I cannot thank you all enough for what you’ve done.”

  “Nor can we,” Mrs. MacMaster said. “Truly, this will be a Christmas like no other, full not just of miracles, but of forgiveness. For that, I could not be more grateful.”

  They stayed with us for another hour, letting the children play. When we summoned the youngsters from the nursery, Annalise came down on Richard’s arm, standing nearly a foot taller than him. He bowed neatly to her before she and her family left the house, the look on his face so serious not even Henry dared tease him.

  “Nanny said we might dine with you this evening,” Tom said. “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” Colin said, swinging the boy up onto his shoulders. “And I’m famished.”

  “That’s because we didn’t have tea. Visitors wreak havoc upon a schedule,” Henry said, sitting down on the steps that curved from the entrance hall to the first floor above.

  “They needn’t,” Tom said. “It’s just that in the circumstances, nothing could be ordinary.”