“That’s a good idea.” Grace smiled and brushed another tear away. “Listen, Aldous, why don’t you come to bed? It’s getting chilly in here, and I don’t want you catching a cold.”
He shook his head. “I’m quite comfortable, Grace. I can’t help but wonder where Josiah is sleeping tonight. Hopefully, he’s in a warm bed and not curled up in some hovel somewhere, freezing to death.”
Grace knelt before him. “Please stop this, dearest. Stop torturing yourself.”
“God, I wish I could. But this is all my fault, don’t you see? Josiah was my responsibility and I failed him. I lost my temper that night. I mishandled the whole thing. I should never have let him leave.”
“Aldous, please.”
“Yes, you’re quite right. I’m being horribly selfish. He’s your son as well. It’s just that I can’t… I can’t seem to…” A sob rose up from Aldous’ throat. “You go to bed, my love. I’ll be up shortly. Please, I’d really like to be alone for a while.”
“No more, I beg of you!” Trembling, Josiah turned away as another scene took shape before him. “I’ve seen enough. I understand now. I’ll go back home. I promise.”
“This next is the final image, Joe.”
“I told you. I’ve seen enough.”
“This is different. Look at it, please.”
He did so and frowned, not quite able to understand what he was seeing. Though the image was real, it appeared to be frozen, as if time had been halted.
“I don’t recognize this at all,” he said.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“Then why are you showing it to me?”
“Because I want you to remember it. Every detail of it.”
Josiah regarded him. “Why?”
“You’ll know why tomorrow.”
“Is it some kind of trick?”
“No, not really.” He smiled. “Think of it as a calling card.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will tomorrow. There’s nothing to fear, I swear.”
Josiah turned back and looked upon the image once more. “So, I assume that’s it,” he said. “You’ll be leaving now.”
“I want you to know that I have complete faith in you, young man,” he replied, after a pause.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The image began to fade. “I meant for everything.”
“I know what you meant, Josiah.”
Josiah regarded his marred reflection in the mirror. “Will I ever see you again?”
The candleflame flickered a silent response.
Chapter Three
Josiah awoke to bright sunshine pouring through the window. A dream slipped instantly from his grasp. The events of the previous night flooded his mind. Even now, he could scarcely believe the reality of it all. Certainly, if he tried to explain it to anyone—and he doubted very much that he ever would—they’d think him deranged. Yet something had taken place, imagined or not. Something that had lifted his spirits and allowed him to see a way home.
His gaze drifted to the easel, his eyes widening. He gasped and sat up, startled fully awake by the sight of a piece of paper already clamped into place. An all-white landscape, begging for color.
Josiah tossed his blankets aside and went to investigate, trailing a fingertip over the fine weave of the paper. As he did so, an image came to mind and he glanced at the mirror.
I want you to remember it. Every detail of it.
He did remember it. Every detail, as clear as it had been the previous night. And for whatever reason, he knew it was meant to be captured on paper. A challenging task, since he’d never actually done portraits before. His fingers, tingling with anticipation, hovered over his brushes.
There was little point in delaying.
Chapter Four
Highfield Hall
Christmas Day, 1844
(Present Day)
Grace brushed an imaginary speck from the white damask tablecloth and heaved a soft sigh. The table, decked out in its Christmas finery, looked spectacular, from the centerpiece of holly and dried flowers to the matching candelabra. The perfectly positioned cutlery had been polished to a blinding luster, the crystal glasses sparkled like diamonds, and the gilt-edged tableware gleamed.
Eight settings.
Aldous would, as always, sit at the head of the table. Grace would seat herself at the other end, and the children…
Children?
She smiled. Yes, they were her children, no matter their age.
Julian, at twenty-one, though named for Grace’s deceased brother, actually took after Grace’s father. Level-headed and practical. Perhaps a bit too practical, Grace thought. Older than his years. He also seemed to be completely unaware of his good looks.
Louisa, at eighteen, was about to have her second Season. The mere thought of it made Grace wince inwardly. The previous one had not gone quite as planned. Louisa, in the city, was like a fish out of water. Nor did she gladly tolerate what she saw as the affectations of upper society. It remained to be seen, then, how this new season would play out.
At sixteen years of age, Elena and Clara had another year before their come-out. Grace wasn’t quite ready to think about that, either. The girls had been inseparable since birth, so she couldn’t imagine how they’d adjust to being married off.
As for Arthur…
Grace smiled at the thought of her youngest. Her little soldier who, at thirteen years of age, was already determined to follow in his father’s military footsteps.
Five children. Two adults.
Eight settings.
Tears blurred her eyes as she swallowed over the thickness in her throat. “Please let him be all right,” she whispered. “Please.”
A floorboard creaked behind her, causing her to gather herself. She blinked several times and straightened the slouch in her shoulders. A pair of strong arms folded around her, and a kiss landed gently on her hair.
“Perhaps we should have gone to Derbyshire,” Aldous murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Spent Christmas with Godfrey.”
Grace sniffed and turned to face her husband. “The pain would be the same anywhere, darling.”
He drew her close, his chest rising and falling. “Yes, it would.”
Grace rested her head against his chest, comforted by the sound of his heart beating solidly beneath his ribs. Her own heart went out to him, for she knew he continually blamed himself for Josiah’s departure. “He’ll come back one day, Aldous,” she said. “I know he will.
He pressed a kiss to her hair. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Grace heard the sadness in his voice and straightened. “Where is everyone?” she asked, determined to steer the conversation onto a more cheerful path.
“Julian and Louisa are in the library, I believe. And the twins are playing Hunt the Thimble with Arthur in the east parlor.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Well, I think I’ll go and get ready for dinner.”
But Aldous held her in place for a moment. “I love you, Grace,” he said. “I really should tell you that more often.”
“The one thing I have never doubted is your love, Aldous.” She touched his face and rose up on her toes to kiss his mouth. “I’m a fortunate woman.”
“A toast.” Aldous lifted his glass and got to his feet. “The weather may be cold, but our hearts are warm. May God bless each and every one of us.”
“Each and every one of us,” Grace repeated, a slight waver in her voice.
Louisa held her glass aloft. “Especially Joe, wherever he is,” she said. “May his heart be happy and his stomach full.”
“Yes, especially Joe.” Aldous regarded the empty chair. “May he find his way home one of these days.”
“Hear, hear,” Julian said, his response echoed quietly around the table as everyone drank.
Suppressing a sigh, Aldous sat and picked up his napkin. Come the New Year, he resolved to once again try to locate his missing son.
Or, at least, find out what had become of him. He regarded the bowl of what looked like carrot soup that a footman had just placed before him.
“This looks delicious,” Grace said, her declaration, he knew, meant solely for his ears. Pick up your spoon and eat, Aldous.
“It does indeed,” he replied, and picked up his spoon.
At that moment the door opened and Tindall stepped into the room, a small silver platter balanced on his hand. “Excuse me, Captain.” he said, looking somewhat troubled. “We’ve had a package come to the back door, marked for your attention.”
Aldous frowned and set his spoon down. “Can it not wait, Tindall?”
“If you wish, Captain.” The man held out the platter, upon which rested an envelope and an opener. “But this was attached to it. Being Christmas day and all, I thought it rather odd, and thought you should be advised.”
“Who delivered it?” Grace asked, as Aldous took the envelope.
To Captain Aldous Northcott, Highfield Hall.
“That’s the strange thing, Mrs. Northcott,” Tindall replied. “We don’t know who delivered it. The kitchen maid heard a knock at the servant’s entrance, but when she opened it, the only thing there was the package. No sign of anyone.”
“How odd,” Julian said, setting his spoon down also. “Are you expecting something, Papa?”
“Nothing,” Aldous replied, slicing the envelope open. “Very well, let’s see what this is about.”
He pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and began to read.
I have recently been reminded that Christmas is a time for forgiveness and reconciliation. I have also been led to believe that I might be granted these things this Christmas. I hope so.
I pray so.
Since it is also the season of Goodwill, I offer you this gift. The painting, inspired by a dream, has no meaning for me. I hope it has some meaning for you. If nothing else, it will identify me as this letter does not.
It will also serve to voice the question I am not brave enough to ask. I confess I fear a cold-shoulder, but more than that, I fear an acceptance based solely on sympathy. Given a choice, I will take the former.
I’ll be at the watchtower, where the passing of time will give me your answer.
Aldous felt the thud of his heart against his ribs and became aware of the tremble in his hands.
“My god,” he whispered.
“What is it, dearest?” Grace asked. “What does it say?”
Aldous, uncertain of how to respond, answered with a shake of his head. He read the letter again, his spine tingling with something he couldn’t quite identify.
“Have the package brought to me, Tindall,” he said. The man nodded, gestured to the footman, and the two of them scurried off.
“Aldous, what is it? What does it say?” Grace rose to her feet. “You’re as white as a sheet. Is it bad news?”
Aldous heard the fear in her voice and addressed it. “No, Grace, it’s not bad news,” he replied, meeting her gaze. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what it’s about. Not yet at least. I need to see the painting.”
“Painting?” She shook her head. “What painting?”
“The one I believe Tindall is about to deliver. The letter mentions it.”
“Who is the letter from, Papa?” Louisa asked. “Is it someone you know?”
“Again, I’m not sure,” Aldous replied, folding it and putting it back in the envelope. “It isn’t signed.”
“A Christmas mystery,” Elena said.
“How exciting,” Clara added.
“Will we be allowed to see the painting, Papa?” Arthur asked.
Aldous felt Grace’s eyes on him and regarded her once more, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Yes, Arthur,” Aldous replied to his youngest. “I don’t see why not.”
The footman returned, carrying a large, flat package wrapped in yellowed linen and tied with string.
“Where shall I place it, Captain?”
“Prop it up on the console table by the wall, there. Perfect. Thank you. Please let the kitchen know that dinner will be temporarily delayed.”
Aldous waited till the door closed before approaching the package. Grace followed suit, as did the others.
“I wonder what it depicts,” Louisa said. “Maybe it’s a painting of Highfield.”
Julian grunted. “Or maybe it contains an image unsuitable for a lady’s innocent eyes.”
“I no longer have innocent eyes, dear brother,” Louisa said. “Not since I visited Florence last year.”
Her mother frowned. “Louisa!”
“If I thought it contained anything unsuitable, I’d have you all wait outside. Now, let’s see what it does contain.” Aldous undid the knot and pulled the string free. Then, holding his breath, he drew the covering aside to reveal the painting.
The scene leapt to life; that of a man and a small boy, the latter seated at a table with a half-completed jigsaw in front of him. The man, tall, and dressed almost entirely in black, stood to the side, his face visible only in profile, his right hand loosely clenched at his side. His gaze was fixed on the boy, whose upturned face glowed in the light of a nearby candle.
“Oh, Papa!” Louisa cried, clapping her hands. “It’s beautiful! But who are they?”
“It looks like your Uncle Percival,” Grace muttered. “And the boy looks like—”
“Me!” Arthur said. “Do you know him, Papa?”
Aldous said nothing. Bewildered, his mind raced back over time to one particular day. A day he would never forget. Thursday, the thirteenth of September, 1798. The day that changed his life. The scene in the painting had been a fragment of that terrible day. A brief exchange of words between a beloved godfather and a troubled boy. A tableau from the past accurately recreated by an artist in the future.
Aldous knew, without looking at the signature, who had painted it. What he did not know, was how on earth it had been achieved. A remarkable dream, indeed, to have captured the moment in such detail. And why this scene? Was it relevant, somehow? The artist knew nothing of the incident. It had taken place twenty-five years before he’d even been born.
No one knew of it.
Not even Grace.
Grace stepped closer and bent to read the signature on the bottom right corner. Aldous held his breath once more, already knowing what name she would see.
She gave a little gasp and turned wide, tear-filled eyes to him. “Aldous?”
“I know, Grace.”
“Oh, dear God. Is this some kind of cruel jest?”
“No, I don’t think so, my love.” He gave her the letter, followed by a kiss to the cheek. “I have to go out for a little while. The letter will explain why. I won’t be long. While I’m gone, have the fire stoked and more candles lit. I want this place to look as welcoming as possible. And send the soup back to the kitchen and have it reheated. When I return, we’re going to start this dinner again. And this time, I want to see wine in all eight glasses.”
Only as Aldous shrugged on his coat did it occur to him. He recalled the letter, and one line in particular.
The painting, inspired by a remarkable dream, has no meaning for me. I hope it has some meaning for you.
Perhaps it did. Perhaps the message lay in the words spoken by Percival on that night, so many years before. They came back to him as if spoken yesterday.
“If there’s ever anything troubling you, you can always come to me. I’ll never judge you.”
A legacy of words to be passed on to a prodigal son?
Aldous smiled, pulled on his gloves, and let himself out into the moonlight.
Josiah blew into his hands, stomped his feet against the cold, and kept his eyes on Highfield’s moonlit drive. He’d decided to wait an hour before giving up. Of course, not owning a watch meant that he’d have to guess when an hour had actually passed. So far, he estimated about half that time had gone by.
Should he not be here by now?
Desp
ite the visions he’d seen of his mother’s tears and his father’s declarations, he still had doubts about his acceptance back into the family. Until he actually saw his father approaching, he didn’t dare believe that the summons would be answered.
He’d sold everything he’d possessed in order to get his fare back to England. His easel, his paints, his brushes. Even the pock-marked mirror in his room. Consequently, he stood in the only clothes he had, with maybe a shilling or two in his pocket.
But he was here. He was home.
A gust of wind rustled the ivy on the watchtower, drawing his attention. The ruin stood as a black silhouette in the moonlight, mysterious and forbidding. Josiah had never feared the place. Rather, it stoked his imagination, as did the mighty oak tree which stood opposite. Two landmarks, standing sentinel for centuries, impervious to the elements. Seeing the vast expanse of moorland again had given him a strange sense of infinity that stirred his blood. Seeing Highfield again had brought a lump to his throat. When he’d delivered the painting earlier that night, the rose window had lain in darkness. Obviously, the ritual lighting of the candle had not yet taken place.
He turned his attention back to the road, his breath catching at the sight of a black silhouette, that of a man, walking toward him. Still some distance away, the finer details of the man’s appearance couldn’t be seen. But Josiah recognized his father immediately. A sound erupted from his throat. Should I go and meet him? He fidgeted. Yes, I should. I should meet him halfway.
Nerves swarming like bees in his stomach, he set off, practicing what he would say when they met, and forgetting every single word as he drew near. He halted not six feet away from where his father now stood, both of them drenched in moonlight.
His father looked a little older, perhaps, but was as trim and straight as ever. Reading him proved difficult in the subdued light. Certainly, the expression on his face gave little away.
“Hello, Papa.” Josiah clenched and unclenched his fists. “Thank you for coming. I… I wasn’t sure if you would.”
His father frowned, his critical gaze sweeping Josiah from head to toe. “Before we go any further, Josiah,” he said, “I want to make something abundantly clear. And that is, it doesn’t matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done. When you summon me, whether it be by an unsigned letter or a bloody carrier pigeon, I will always come to you. Do you hear me? And if, for any reason, I’m unable to answer your summons, I’ll send someone in my stead. But I swear I will never ignore you. I will never abandon you.” His jaw ticked. “None of this was your fault, son. It was mine entirely. I failed you, and I’m so terribly sorry. Please forgive me.”
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 49
