Agatha’s face colored in shame as she looked at her brother. “What is he talking about? I sent him away…” her voice faded.
He looked at her and nodded. “I think the answer will be apparent in time.”
“You speak in riddles and it frustrates me, brother,” she answered carefully. “What will happen to little Henry?”
“Ah! So there could be a heart in there,” he said irreverently. “It is almost Christmas, and adoptions are rare. Most likely he will grow up in the orphanage, never to know a parent’s love.”
A lump formed in her throat. “Enough. This is torture, Thomas. Please go away. Let me sleep.”
“I wish I could, but I fear we must continue. You have more to learn,” he said.
Chapter Three
The small boy’s wails trailed behind, as darkness and the now familiar thick, whitish mist again encased them. Hot tears rolled from her eyes and she relished the momentary relief it brought. Agatha had not cried in an age, not even when Ambrose died. Panic was the emotion she recalled—the feeling that she might run out of funds. Having taken care of the household for over five years, she realized there was no magic. You simply did not spend what was unnecessary.
The small child had touched a heart she forgot she possessed. Did I just mock myself? she thought sarcastically.
Another bell rang and, when the mist cleared, Agatha saw herself standing beneath a tree, watching a rainy funeral attended by three people and a cat. All stood sheltered under large black umbrellas, with water streaming from the edges. The gray cat was tucked under the arm of one of the men. That’s interesting, she mused. The cat looks just like Pretty.
Thomas turned and smirked at her.
“Why are we here, Thomas? Will we not get wet?” she asked, haughtily.
Her brother’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “No. We are viewing this and are not physically a part of it. You will remain dry.”
She sensed cynicism, and it irritated her. She had asked a perfectly logical question. Agatha squinted and stared. This was her funeral. Bile rose in her throat as horror overcame her. Was this some kind of joke? Where was her so-called family—her niece and husband, her sister-in-law? Obviously, they had not tried to come.
She turned to her brother standing behind her. “Th-this is my funeral?”
He nodded.
“My. . . our family. . . are not here. Where is my man of affairs? I see no one from my household staff is here. Is there no respect for the dead?” The cold reality that no one cared about her washed over her. “I suppose no one will show at the house afterwards,” she said with a gulp, peering at the small group. “That is Bentley. He came?” She could handle mortification. But this seemed more personal, and it stung.
He arched a brow. “All true, sister. They will carry your last testament out as written. It will be read tomorrow. The lawyer refused to allow it to interrupt his Christmas celebrations.” He pointed to a stand of beautiful white roses sitting on top of the coffin.
“That reprobate. He was never helpful,” she said, still complaining. “I willed it all to my …niece,” she finally finished. The irony dawned on her. “Charlotte was the only person I could think of, when he asked. She could not help…” she quieted and thought about things. Had she caused her own loneliness?
“That will surprise them, I am sure,” Thomas muttered under his breath.
“Who provided the flowers?” She had been used to her brother’s sarcasm. Nothing changed, it seemed, not even in death.
“Charlotte and her husband provided the flowers, at least the white ones. That’s curious.” Her brother leaned in to get a closer look at the vision. “Ah, I see there are also red ones,” he added. “I believe Charlotte and her husband had planned to come, but the baby became sick, and they felt it best not to make the trip. They will send a card, I am sure,” he finished, with a hint of mockery.
“Oh.” For the first time in her life, Agatha agonized over her misdeed. She had ignored her own brother’s death because it was inconvenient for her to travel. Had she been ill, that would have been understandable, yet it had not been the case. Her vindictive nature kept her away. Remorse enveloped her. “I am so. . . sorry for not saying goodbye to you, Thomas.”
He cleared his throat. “I never knew the difference,” he said with a shrug. “However, my family did,” he said. His tone was indifferent. “This is your funeral, if you do not change, Agatha.”
“You mean…there is still time? I can change things?” She felt the first glimmer of hope she could recall feeling in a long time.
“You are alive. Therefore, much is possible,” he returned. “Listen.” He pointed her back to the ceremony.
“Let us commit our sister, Agatha Wendt, to her earthly home,” the minister said, looking up impatiently from his book. “Do each of you feel the need,” he punctuated, “to add a few words?”
“I would like to speak.” Charles stepped forward.
“If you feel inclined,” the vicar huffed and pulled his pocket watch out to check the time.
Charles eyed him with a raised brow and continued. “Lady Wendt was a good woman,” he started slowly. “Much was made of her inability to give, but it was my belief that her generosity, or lack of it,” he glared at the preacher who was looking elsewhere, “was more motivated by fear. I witnessed genuine acts of kindness, and it grieves me to see her gone,” he said croakily.
“How is it he understands me, when I barely do myself?” she mused, still watching.
“As an example of her kindness, we have Pretty, here. Many would have passed a half-frozen, broken cat in the snowy weather,” Charles continued. “Lady Wendt ordered the carriage to stop and rescued the feline.” He nodded towards Pretty, who stood at his feet while he spoke.
“What will happen to my cats?” she turned to Thomas. “I just realized I had not provided for them in my will.”
“You still have time to alter that,” he reminded her. “There is more.”
She listened to her butler talk about her generous nature for five more minutes. What motivated him to notice all of those things? Most servants paid her little heed. He had been a soldier when he applied for the position. He told her his father had not done well with their family finances and he needed to work. That was over five years ago. Bentley never questioned her motives, and she never heard him utter a word against anyone. Rather, he seemed to see the good in all the servants. She sniggered. Perhaps that was why there was so much turnover. He believed in giving everyone a chance. Warmth spread through her at the thought.
When Charles finished, he placed a small bouquet of red roses atop her casket before stepping back.
The vicar turned to Mr. Hudson. “I suppose you have something to say, as well?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Indeed, I do,” Mr. Hudson stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Lady Wendt has supported our orphanage every year with generosity. Had it not been for her generous donations of clothing and money throughout the years, me missus and me would not have had the needed funds to feed and clothe the children. I thought she might not continue the donations when his lordship passed, but she did, most generously.”
“What? I always turned him away. I called him a beggar and demanded that he be told not to return,” she said indignantly. Then she recalled the crying little boy—Henry. “The orphanages really need the money,” she whispered. “Otherwise, no one would care for the children. They would starve or freeze, or both.” Her heart wrenched at the harsh reminder of her greed.
“How could Mr. Hanson have gotten donations from me?” she wondered out loud. “I kept a strict accounting of my books. There was nary a variance.” Agatha looked at Bentley. “Could he have given his own money? For me?”
“Perhaps,” Thomas murmured.
“Why?” she asked.
“These are things you will have to figure out, Agatha,” he reproved. “You have been greedy and singularly focused on yourself for so many
years. Change will be hard, not impossible. However, I encourage you to try before it is too late. If you do not change, you have seen your future.”
“I have had enough. My head hurts. Please…I must get my rest. Surely, you have tortured me enough,” she whined.
A bell chimed loudly as he held his hand up. “Enough. You are forever a grumbler and a victim, never owning responsibility for problems of your own making,” he thundered.
Once again, the room went dark and the dank, grey mist rose about her feet. She felt chilled and wrapped her arms tightly about herself. This all makes one feel dead already, she thought bitterly.
“The sooner I return to my bed, the sooner I will decide how to change things.”
“Not just yet. I am not convinced you have seen enough to give you reason to change.” Her brother crooked his finger at her and pointed away from them.
“What? I see nothing,” she snapped.
“You will,” he droned.
A well-lit room opened before them. In the corner sat a table covered with a tablecloth, trimmed with greenery and stacked with family gifts wrapped for Christmas. A little boy sat rocking on a wooden horse next to the table, giggling, with a smiling Agatha kneeling beside him.
“That is Henry,” she exclaimed. “At my home.” Of course! She had heard that orphanages encouraged families to share their homes with the children during holidays. She made a mental note to become more acquainted with the local orphanage. She also planned to learn more about her reported generosity. Smiling, she noticed Pretty and her babies were cozied in their own baskets, warming themselves in front of a fireplace.
Bentley walked in with refreshments and set the tray down on the table next to Agatha and the small child, before taking the large leather chair next to her. “I brought it myself. The staff are enjoying our gifts, and I thought we could handle this ourselves.”
“What is he doing? He should not be sitting so. I am not paying him to sit,” she demanded. “He acts as if he is master of the house. . .”
“Shhh! Be quiet, Agatha, and watch. You miss so much with your constant need to censure,” he admonished.
She started to say something back, as was always her habit, but remained quiet and watched as he bid.
A butler walked in and announced her niece’s family. “Lord and Lady Clarendon, their son, the Viscount Thomas, Lady Romney, and Viscount Collins have arrived, my lady,” he announced.
“They have come to visit me?” Agatha asked. She looked again at Bentley and noticed he was not dressed as a butler.
“Walters, see that we have readied the guest rooms. Please see they have everything they need,” Agatha heard herself say.
“How is all of this possible? You are saying this is my life? Are you sure you have not imbibed some spirits?” she questioned her brother.
“Oh! Was that a joke?” He slapped his knee. “It was a hilarious one! A ghost drinking spirits…” he laughed. “That was superb, Aggie.”
“Do not call me that. You know I have always hated that,” she cracked good naturedly. The animosity was gone from her voice.
She had gotten the message. She was not entirely sure that all in this vision could happen, as it looked like another’s life and not hers. However, she could see to some things.
“I believe I understand,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “I would like to go home, if you will allow it. I need to sort through all of this.”
“I hear sincerity and am relieved. All I have ever wanted, all anyone has ever wanted, is your happiness.” There was a long pause. “You will not see me again, dear sister. Nonetheless, know I have always loved you, and will never stop, as long as my spirit lives,” he said, with a smile in his voice. “When you wake up, you will remember all you have seen.”
“Wait…even you?” she laughed, yet she wanted to never forget this side of her brother, realizing her love for him.
He laughed heartily. “Most especially me. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Thomas,” she said as tears spilled down her cheeks. “You saved me.”
“No, Aggie. You will save yourself.” He bent over his sister and gently kissed her cheek.
She touched the spot where he had placed his kiss and held her hand over it, willing it to stay. It was still hard to believe Thomas had died. She had not heard such love from him toward her in years. Agatha loved her brother, and her brother loved her—she was startled she had never realized his love in her adult years. It caused her great pain because the fault was all hers. She had pushed her family away. A lot of bridges needed mending.
A bell softly tolled in the distance and the mist began to rise.
“Goodbye, Thomas,” she whispered as she watched her brother fade into the darkness. “I shall never forget.”
Suddenly, she became conscious of her own bed. Pretty’s soft snores rose from her pillow. She opened her eyes to see Mrs. Stone sitting beside her. “Doctor Bells is here, my lady. Bentley is bringing him up now,” the old woman said.
“How long have I been asleep?” she murmured.
“Not long, m’lady. Maybe three hours,” the housekeeper said gently. “I have been sitting with you since I gave you the draught for your headache.
Only a few hours? It seemed like a lifetime.
Chapter Four
Minutes later, Bentley arrived with Doctor Bells. The concern etched in Bentley’s face startled her. She recalled a similar incident. Did he worry about her? How had she missed that? Perhaps her brother had been right when he said she focused on herself too much. Thomas had shown her so much and she feared she might never sort it all in time.
Bentley had attended her funeral. As much as she wanted to cast it all off as a nightmare, she knew better. Thomas had shown her a glimpse of her future and she feared it.
“Doctor Bells, how is Mrs. Winters? Has she delivered?” she asked sincerely, attempting to focus on the present.
Surprised, the doctor glanced at Bentley, who nodded. “Mrs. Winters unexpectedly gave birth to twins. ’Twas an early birth, and one babe was breech. The delivery was very difficult,” he answered. “They all survived. It may be touch and go for one baby, it being smaller than the other.”
“How awful. We shall have Cook make up a basket at once and send the food to them. The family must eat, and Mrs. Winters needs her rest at a time like this. Mrs. Stone, can you see to this?”
“Y . . . yes, m’lady,” the older woman stammered, glancing to Bentley and back to Agatha. “I will be ’appy to!” she added, her confusion giving way to delight.
“Thank you. In fact, with only three days until Christmas, there is much to do. We need to ready the house.” She sat up and turned to the physician. “I feel much better. Can you tell me how to avoid whatever occurred earlier? Seems that is the best course of action these days for me. And we have a holiday to prepare,” she quipped merrily.
“M’lady, are you sure?” Mrs. Stone asked, treading carefully.
“Of course! ’Tis Christmastide, is it not?” she demanded cheerfully.
“Yes, it is, but I have been told we never . . .”
“Never used to make a fuss,” she finished Mrs. Stone’s sentence. “I wish to make new traditions,” Agatha announced proudly.
“Doctor, she became dizzy and fell, claiming a headache. I swear I did not give her spirits, I promise,” the old woman whispered loudly to the doctor.
No, a spirit visited me, Agatha thought. Irritated at being spoken about while she was right there, she hissed, “I can hear you. I am not deaf. I have many good years ahead of me.”
Her housekeeper cackled, not in the least chastised. “I am delighted to help you, my lady.”
The doctor concluded his exam. “I believe your megrims have intensified. Hopefully, they will not continue. I will leave you laudanum in case they are severe. However, Mrs. Stone’s draughts and bedrest until tomorrow may be the best course. Your head should feel better quickly.”
“And I
can go about my life. Thank you!” she replied merrily.
“Mr. Bentley mentioned your cat,” the doctor offered.
The doctor had not yet packed his bag and fled. How unusual. He usually bolted as quickly as possible, yet was not in a hurry and had engaged in conversation. “Yes, Pretty is a stray. She was nearly frozen to death but appears much better. However, I think she is . . . with kittens,” she finished. “They must be given a good chance to live.”
“May I?” he asked, taking out his stethoscope.
“I would appreciate it. I worry about her getting what she needs,” Agatha answered, anxiously rubbing her hands together.
Bells put the hollow wooden tube against the animal’s stomach and listened. After checking her other parts, including her gums and ears, he packed his instruments. “I am not an animal doctor, but I believe she is in fine health. In a few weeks, she will give birth to at least two kittens. I thought I saw a third one move in her belly, so be prepared,” he pronounced, smiling.
“Oh goody! I thought as much,” she said, clapping her hands. She picked up Pretty. “You are going to be a mother, little lady! And I think you will be marvelous.”
“Cook is warming milk. I will bring a dish upstairs so she can keep you company, my lady,” her housekeeper piped in.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stone. You have been so helpful.”
“I will take my leave, my lady,” the doctor rejoined.
“Thank you for everything, doctor. I truly appreciate it.” She found that she meant it.
Charles escorted the doctor to the door. His own head throbbed, having experienced the biggest personality shift he had ever witnessed. What in the world had happened to Lady Wendt? Had she just complimented the new housekeeper and the doctor? He admitted to himself, he was pleased. However, he was baffled at the change. Wearing a smile for the first time in a long time, he went about his duties until called for dinner. Taking his plate, he went to his room, needing time to reflect on the day.
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 39
