by Janette Oke
Celia Prescott became all waving hands and fluttering handkerchiefs. “I don’t know who said it,” she replied offensively. “I heard it from Alvira Allenby and she heard it from—oh, I don’t know.”
“And what are ‘they’ saying? Go on.”
“They are saying that the young woman, Miss Davis, is . . . is hired help,” finished Celia in a horrified whisper.
“And so she is,” responded Virginia Stafford-Smyth calmly.
“Well, you must put a stop to it. Your grandson’s name and your—she what?” shrieked Celia Prescott, obviously only now hearing the words that had been stated.
“Belinda is my nurse. And a most excellent one, too. Is there a problem with that, Celia?”
“Well, I . . . well, your . . . your grandson is . . . is escorting her about town, and folks assumed that he had your blessing and . . .”
“And so he has. I know of no young woman I would rathah see my grandson spend his time with,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth with spirit.
Mrs. Celia Prescott for once did not know how to respond.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “Here’s our tea. Would you pou-ah for us please, Pottah?”
Mrs. Celia Prescott lowered herself to the chair across from Mrs. Virginia Stafford-Smyth and, looking very distraught, fanned herself with her lace hankie.
Potter served and then retreated. Virginia Stafford-Smyth picked up the conversation. “Belinda was the one who nursed me back to health when I was so close to dying,” she said simply. “I love the girl as I would my own daughtah. In fact, I’ve often considered adopting her.” She paused and seemed to be off in thought. “I would, too, if I thought for a minute that she would allow it.” Then she turned again to her guest. “I’ve seen a few of the young women that my two grandsons have shown interest in,” she confided. “Monied families—looking for more money. Showpieces without an intelligent thought in their empty heads. Society girls! Oh yes! Their family history can be traced back nearly to Adam. But shallow, selfish—” she hesitated, looking away from her guest as she sought for the proper word—“nothing,” she finally sputtered. “Just ornamental bits of fluffy nothing.
“Well, Celia,” she continued, turning to look at her directly, “as far as I’m concerned, I would as soon see my grandson marry an intelligent char as an empty-headed socialite.”
Mrs. Celia Prescott gasped in horror.
“There, now! I’ve said my piece—now we will have no more of it,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, and she cheerfully changed the topic to what play was on at the local theater.
As summer turned to fall, Belinda enjoyed the briskness in the wind and the turning of the maple trees. Never had she seen such glorious fall colors. The golds and browns back home are no match for these, she concluded. Pierre often took a team and the small carriage, and they went for drives down tree-lined residential streets and sometimes even out into the nearby countryside. Belinda had passing moments of guilt. She had come to Boston to be nurse and companion to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. She was the first to be thankful that the lady no longer needed strict nursing care; still it did seem to Belinda that as long as she was salaried, she should be doing something further to earn her wage.
But it was Mrs. Stafford-Smyth herself who kept urging the outings. She took great pleasure in Belinda being shown their beautiful city and surrounding area, she said. Each night she would demand to hear Belinda’s full report of what they had seen and where they had gone that day.
Belinda did not realize till later the secret hopes that the lady was harboring. She did know Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had been lonely for years and that she dreaded the thought of Pierre becoming restless and leaving her to go abroad once more. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth continued to urge the two young people to find excitement in the town and friendship with each other, and Belinda thought Pierre’s grandmother was simply trying to keep him engaged and too busy to think of leaving again.
The autumn winds became chilly and trips in the open carriage were not as frequent. When the snowstorms moved in, one following the other, Belinda checked her calendar. They had moved into winter. She could scarcely believe she already had been gone from her home for several months.
Whenever she received a letter from her mother, homesickness struck her, a bit stronger each time. She missed her family so much. If only there were some way to combine the two worlds. She tried to compensate by throwing herself into each activity that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth suggested. Every day of the week, it seemed, she and Pierre found something more exciting to occupy their time. Eventually there was not even time to fit in Sunday church services. The day was spent instead with plays or concerts. Belinda had never had such full, fun days in all her life.
One day Belinda unexpectedly was called in to see the older woman. She was shocked to find her taken to her bed, her face ashen, her lips tightly drawn. Belinda berated herself. What had happened? Had the elderly lady had a setback? Why hadn’t she, her nurse, seen it coming?
“What is it? Are you ill?” she asked anxiously, placing a hand on the woman’s brow.
“I’m fine. Really. I just . . . I just am a foolish old woman, that’s all.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked the puzzled Belinda.
“I was . . . was hoping I’d found a way to hold him this time,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth said wearily.
“Hold him? Hold who?”
“Pierre. My Petah.”
Alarmed, Belinda said, “What do you mean?” already fearing what the answer might be.
“He’s leaving. He just came to tell me. He says he can’t bear Boston wintahs. He’s . . . he’s going back to France.”
Belinda had no voice to respond to the woman. She simply stood beside her, her hand gently stroking the cheeks, the brow, the silver hair.
“I thought . . . I thought he seemed happiah this time. That now, with anothah young person in the house, he . . . he might stay.”
Belinda still said nothing.
“You . . . you didn’t have a lovah’s quarrel, now did you, deah?” asked the woman.
Belinda found her voice then. “Oh my, no! Why . . . why we’ve been nothing more than friends . . . just friends.”
The woman looked sorrowful. “I . . . I was hoping . . .” she began, but she did not finish her statement.
With the chill that gripped Belinda’s heart, she wondered if she subconsciously had been hoping to hold on to Pierre herself, but she did not confess as much to her employer.
“When . . . when is he leaving?” she asked quietly.
“He has already booked passage. He sails on Friday.”
Friday! That was two days hence. That didn’t give one much time for good-byes. But perhaps that was the way Pierre wanted it.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth sighed wearily. “You don’t understand, deah,” she said. “I realize now that I have no way to hold him heah. No way. If I want to see him and Frank, then I must go to them. They will nevah, nevah come home to me.”
Belinda nodded. She thought she did understand.
Belinda tried hard not to let her emotions show as she bade Pierre good-bye.
“I can never thank you for all the . . . the sharing of Boston,” she told him. “Ya—you made the city live for me.”
Pierre took her hand and held it firmly. “I’m the one to say thanks,” he said a bit grandly, then more sincerely, “I have had a good time.”
“It’s going to be rather . . . well, dreary without you,” she admitted. “I don’t know how your grandmother and I shall ever bear it.”
“Take care of her, Belinda,” he said, earnestness now in his tone. “I know that it is unfair of me to even ask it of you when I . . . when I should be staying here, doing it myself. But I can’t. Not just now. I know . . . I know you can’t understand that, but I beg you not to think too unkindly of me.”
“I could never think unkindly of you,” Belinda said sincerely. “And as far as your grandmother is concerned, I’ll . . . I’ll try,” Belinda promised
. “I know she will miss you terribly. That she misses Franz. She would love to see Franz and his new . . . new . . .” Belinda floundered.
“New love,” prompted Pierre. “Though I am the first to admit that Franz may well have changed loves once or twice since I left him. He has changed often in the past, you know. Although this time, he insists it is different.”
Belinda smiled.
“Safe journey,” Belinda said simply.
“In France we say, ‘Bon voyage,’” he reminded her.
“Bon voyage,” repeated Belinda.
He gave her a quick, rather brotherly hug, and then he was gone. Belinda stood and watched the carriage until it was out of sight, a tightness in her throat. She had liked Pierre. She had even thought he might care for her, just a little . . . but now he had turned and casually walked out of her life.
Little did Belinda know that Pierre was running away. He was beginning to care too much for Belinda, but unlike his grandmother, Pierre was thoroughly convinced their two vastly different worlds would not mix. Pierre did not wish to give up his world as he knew it, nor did he feel comfortable about asking Belinda to give up hers. The only answer, in Pierre’s thinking, was to put the ocean between them.
Twenty-Five
A Taste of Travel
While one winter storm after another swept through the area, Belinda shivered and watched the wind pile banks of driven snow where banks of flowering begonias had so recently been.
No wonder Pierre escaped, she thought to herself grimly. She would gladly have left for parts unknown herself. Then she shook her head at how sheltered she had become, how dependent on the finer things of life—even good weather. Why, this kind of snow couldn’t come close to matching a true northerner out on the prairie. . . .
Dear Ma, she sat down to write, I do miss you all just awfully. And sometimes I can’t quite figure out what I’m doing way out here so far from home. But Mrs. Stafford-Smyth needs someone to be with her and be a friend—even more now that her grandson has returned to France. . . . She knew her mother no doubt would read between the lines and yearn over her youngest, and that her parents would be praying for her.
Not all Belinda’s days were chilly and bleak. On the nicer ones, she bundled up against the cold and went for walks or had the carriage brought around so she might do some shopping for Christmas gifts. She was looking forward to sending packages home for her family.
As Christmas drew closer, Belinda felt a renewed stirring of homesickness. The letters from her mother continued to arrive regularly, and occasionally Belinda received notes from other members of the family, as well.
Luke wrote with news of the medical practice. Belinda was pleased to learn that they had decided to have Rand build them an office—separate and complete, giving Abbie back the privacy of their home. Luke then planned to convert the old office in the house into a large room for the two growing boys.
The up-to-date reports on Abe’s arm informed Belinda that he had been away for surgery—two surgeries, in fact—and though the arm was still not completely restored, it was vastly improved over what it had been. Abe beams when he shows it off to the family members, Belinda read, and the tears that blurred the words on the page came from a heart of thankfulness.
Arnie was back in church—and not just sitting stolidly on a pew. He was involved again, and his faith had conquered the last trace of bitterness.
But not all the news was good news. There had been deaths among neighboring families, and Luke had lost a baby in delivery—the first in his experience—and had very nearly lost the young mother, too. He felt the tragedy keenly, and Belinda, understanding her brother, ached for him.
The partnership with Dr. Jackson Brown had been a good one. Luke from the beginning had been deeply involved with the practice of medicine, and he was now able to spend more time with Abbie and their growing family.
Ruthie’s chattering had turned into understandable language. Thomas had been teaching her to say “Aunt Belinda,” and Ruthie seemed to think their little game was fun. Luke wrote that the sound came out more like “Aw Binna.” Belinda both laughed and wept over the little story. It was awfully nice to know she had not been forgotten at home.
Actually, both Rand and Jackson had written to Belinda, too. But when she responded with short, friendly but matter-of-fact notes, the answering correspondence from each of them had soon tapered off. Luke had reported in his letter that Rand stopped by last Saturday to invite Thomas and Aaron on a little fishing trip—and were they ever excited! Belinda smiled to herself as she imagined their enthusiastic chatter.
When Belinda had all her shopping done, her parcels wrapped, and her gifts on their way, there seemed to be nothing left to do except to wait out the days until Christmas finally arrived.
Belinda had never spent Christmas away from home before. She wondered just how Mrs. Stafford-Smyth celebrated the day. Surely one could not expect much in festivities with only two people.
Other than Pierre, Belinda still had not made any friends of her own age. True, there were a few young people whom she had met in his company, but now that he was gone, she had really lost contact with them. She supposed if things had been different and she had been included as staff in the big house as Potter seemed to feel was proper, she might have become friendly with Ella and Sarah. As it was, the girls spoke to her politely but did their talking and tittering outside of her hearing when they met each other in the halls or kitchen. Though she had tried to engage them in conversation, Belinda was not considered to be one of them.
The guests who joined Mrs. Stafford-Smyth for afternoon tea or an elaborate dinner were all older folk, and though Belinda was always expected to join them, she really did not feel part of those gatherings, either.
She took up handwork along with her walking and reading, and managed to tick the slow-moving days from her calendar, one by one.
Every day she spent some time with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. She knew the older lady was as much in need of companionship as she herself. Usually they sipped tea, chatted, and did some kind of needlework before an open fire.
In a way it was cozy—at least to an onlooker it would have seemed so. But Belinda knew that deep down inside she felt a restlessness—a loneliness—and she wasn’t sure just what to do about it.
On one such day, while Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was working skillfully on a silk sampler and Belinda embroidered a pair of cotton pillowcases, they chatted easily about many things.
“It’s hard to believe that next week is Christmas,” Belinda observed. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did not even lift her eyes from her needlework. Belinda thought at first that she had not even heard the comment. She was about to speak further when Mrs. Stafford-Smyth answered, still without lifting her head.
“There was a time when Christmas brought a flurry of excitement in this house,” she remarked. Then she added slowly, almost tiredly, “But no more.”
Belinda felt her heart sink. It sounded as though the lady was dismissing Christmas as of no consequence.
“How do you celebrate Christmas?” Belinda dared to ask.
“Celebrate it? ‘Spend it,’ you mean. Much as we are spending today, I expect.”
Belinda’s eyes lifted from the pillowcases to study her older companion. She saw a droop to the shoulders and resignation in her face.
“But . . . but it’s Christ’s birthday!” Belinda could not help exclaiming.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth faced her then and her eyes brightened for a moment. “Oh, we go to the church service—to be sure. But there are no more stuffed stockings and tinseled tree.”
Belinda had a sudden resolve. She needed Christmas. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth needed Christmas. She laid aside her needlework and quickly stood to her feet.
“Let’s!” she said excitedly.
The older woman’s head lifted quickly and she stared as though Belinda had lost her senses.
“Let’s!” said Belinda again.
“What are you—?” began
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, but Belinda interrupted, her eyes shining and her hands clasped.
“Let’s have Christmas again! You and me. Let’s have the tree and the tinsel and the stockings.”
“But—but—”
“No ‘buts.’ We need Christmas. I’ve never not had Christmas. Why, I would mope and cry all day without it. I just know I would. We can have Windsor get us a tree, and I’ll decorate, and Cook can make plum pudding or butter tarts or whatever you like, and we’ll share gifts with the staff and—”
The older woman began to chuckle softly. Belinda’s fire seemed to have ignited something in her soul, as well. She gently laid down her silk piece and rubbed her hands together.
“If it means so much to you—”
“Oh, it does. It does!” cried Belinda.
“Then go ahead. Do whatever you like.”
“No! No, not me. Us! Us! You need Christmas just as much as I do. We’ll plan it together.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth chuckled again. “My, you do go on, don’t you? Well, if it pleases you—then of course we’ll have Christmas. Ring for Windsah and Pottah. We’d best tell them of our plans as soon as possible. Staff will think I’ve gone completely mad—but—” She smiled. “Better a little mad than a lot lonely,” she finished.
The next few days were spent in frenzied but joyful activity. After a trip out in the country, Windsor produced a magnificent tree. Potter rummaged in the attic and storage rooms until she discovered boxes of old garlands and tinseled decorations. Belinda shook the dust from them and trimmed the tree and hung streamers and garlands. From the kitchen came the scents of spices and baking as Cook prepared festive dishes. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth ordered the carriage and began returning from shopping outings with mysterious parcels and packages. A whole new air of excitement pervaded the house that had for so long been silent and empty. They were going to celebrate Christmas.
“I think we need some guests,” said Belinda thoughtfully as their plans moved forward.
“Guests? But all my friends spend Christmas with family—or abroad,” responded Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
