'Tis the Season: A Collection of Mimi's Christmas Books

by Mimi Barbour

  Nostalgia for the night he’d first met Abbie prodded Marcus’ scrambled wits and made him wish they’d met under different circumstances. But that way of thinking didn’t last too long. Giving up what they’d shared was inconceivable. He’d remember their mystical encounter forever. With a groan, he stood and ambled slowly toward the door.

  Today was a day in a million. Blue skies dominated overhead. Rays of luminous intensity from the sunshine added a magical brilliance to the snow, yet the icicles hanging from the various trees and bushes weren’t melting due to the temperatures hovering at freezing. Other than driving difficulties, the townspeople seemed to be enjoying the weather. In the distance, on a slight incline behind a few of the buildings, Marcus made out some children sliding and enjoying their holiday from school. They reminded him of Cece and Nicholas. Feeling like an old man, he put on his gloves and left.

  The first thing he noticed when he arrived at Holly Mount was the absence of anyone in the hallway. Usually there were children running around, or one of the Sisters to greet him. But today no one appeared. In the distance he heard music and decided to follow the sounds. When he got to the auditorium, he stood transfixed.

  On a small stage, surrounded by others her age, stood Cece, singing her little heart out. By the sounds emerging, a future musical career would be unlikely, but if enthusiasm, acting ability, and stage presence were to be taken into consideration, she could be a star. The darling tot waved her arms all around, and when she hit a particularly high note, or at least tried to, they flung wide as if she were trying to wrap them around everyone in the audience. “Away in a Manger” never sounded better to him.

  As he stood transfixed, something clicked inside his heart, a door opened wide, and pride such as he’d never known before gushed straight from his heart, flowing directly toward the princess on stage. He felt it shining from his eyes and right through the silly wide grin on his face. So this is what parents feel like when their children make them proud. He wanted more of this joy, a lifetime more.

  At the end of her song, he couldn’t help himself. His hands, of their own accord, clapped and brought everyone’s attention his way. Embarrassment followed and, like a fool, he stopped and quickly stuck his hands behind his back.

  “Mr. Chapman, you’re here.” Cece had seen him and, picking up the long skirts of her costume, she ran and flung herself in his direction, obviously trusting him to catch her in his arms. Which he did, gladly. “Did you like my singing? I didn’t make any mistakes this time, did I, Sister?” She turned in his hold to direct her question at Sister Agnes, approaching with baby Nicholas, who for once lay quietly in her arms.

  “Bless you, Cece, you were jolly good. Not one wrong word. Even Nicholas behaved like a perfect little gentleman while you sang. We’re very proud of you.” Nicholas, who’d spied Marcus, made such a fuss that he forced everyone’s attention his way. Both hands were lifted toward Marcus and a beatific smile lit up his features.

  “Nicholas, settle down,” said Sister Agnes, trying to control the squirming, strong-minded child. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chapman. He’s been fussing for so long, we decided that if he could be with Cece and the others, he might behave. And it worked brilliantly. But once he sees you, I’m afraid nothing will do but for you to carry him.”

  Cece broke in before Marcus could reply. “That’s all right, Sister. Mr. Chapman has two arms. Don’t you, sir?”

  “Yes, I most certainly do, little miss. Now come here, big guy and settle down. Poor Sister is getting pummelled by your shenanigans.” So saying, he reached out and snagged Nicholas against his chest and nestled him into his arm as if it were an easy chair.

  Cece reached for the baby’s hands and said, “Did you like my singing, Nicky? I’m rehervesing for Abbie.”

  Sister broke in, a smile she couldn’t hide plastered across her face. “You mean rehearsing, Cece.”

  “Uh-huh. Rehearsing. Do you think she’ll like my song?” This time she aimed her question at Marcus, who answered with no doubts in his mind. “She’ll love your song, Cece. I promise. She can’t wait to see you, all of you.”

  “She’s better? That means she’s better?”

  “Yes, she’s much better. If the doctors agree, she’ll be at the church hall tomorrow, watching your concert and loving every minute. It’s not every day she gets to see a star perform, now, is it?” He tapped his forehead lightly against Cece’s.

  With a pat for his cheek and a wiggle indicating her wishes, he set her back on her feet. “I must go and reherverse more. I want to be perfect.”

  “Oh, my angel, you don’t need reherversing. You already are perfect.” A cleared throat made him turn back to the watchful Sister with the knowing gleam in her eye. “You’re quite taken with our little Cece, and with Nicholas, Mr. Chapman. They are wonderful children, both of them, and would make any family proud.”

  He heard the hint and wished he could answer her veiled question in the manner his heart wanted. But he couldn’t, not with the way his life had spun out of control lately. A small snore caught his attention, and they both looked down to see Nicholas fast asleep. “I’ll go and sit with him in the nursery alcove, shall I? Maybe he can get some uninterrupted sleep, and you can get on with other chores instead of having to deal with the noisy little blighter.”

  “Good idea. I’ll make sure everyone is aware you’ll be in there, so we don’t disturb you. And thank you, Mr. Chapman. You’re a good man.”

  An hour later, when the nun went to check, both man and baby boy were fast asleep in the rocking chair. The reddish-gold tendrils of soft hair on the head of the small child lay against the whiskered cheek of the slouching man, who’d seemed rather upset about something today. She’d sensed his misery, and the sadness lurking in his eyes had given her verification. There was nothing she could do about it, though, so it was best to let things alone. The sight of the two males brought a smile to the nun’s face and a prayer to her lips as she slipped out of the room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A knock on the door woke Abbie from her troubled nap. She thrust her hands through her long bangs, pushing them to the side, and tucked away the messy strands of hair that had escaped from her thick braid. Just in time, too, because the door opened before she’d had the chance to speak.

  She hoped her shock didn’t show on her face. The last person she expected to see was Madeline Chapman, although why, she couldn’t say. After all, the woman had all but admitted their relationship the other night. Of course, she didn’t know that Abbie had heard her words, did she? Therefore, Abbie must pretend an indifference that she didn’t feel. Lord, but her acting abilities, or should she say lack of them, had been put to the test in these last few hours.

  She steeled herself to greet Madeline as a complete stranger and attempted a lackadaisical smile. A thought popped into her head at the last moment and had her berating herself. What makes you think she’s come to see you? Maybe she’s just lost her way.

  “Hello. Are you here to call upon someone?” Dismayed, she realized her voice sounded strained.

  “I’m most terribly sorry to be a bother, Abbie, but, actually, it’s you I’ve come to see. I’ve brought other visitors, also. That’s if you’re up to company at the moment?” The paleness and anxiety in Madeline’s face nearly broke Abbie’s heart. This must be so very difficult for the distressed woman. I’ll make it as easy as I can for the poor dear.

  “How very kind of you. I’m perfectly fine and would love a chat. Doctors are optimistic that I’ll be good as new by tomorrow. In fact, I feel a bit of a cheat, taking up one of their beds.”

  Shock filled Madeline’s face. “But of course you should be in bed. You were in a coma when I left town, and the nurses say you’ve only just recovered. I’m not sure how much you remember, but it was my son, Marcus Chapman, who brought you to the vicar after you passed out.”

  “Yes, I remember him. I’d been covering the roses, and he stopped to help me. Then I fell, and I
can’t remember anything else.”

  “He carried you into the vicarage, and they managed to get you to hospital. The nurses told us just now that it was Marcus who called in Dr. Andrews, and that he turned out to be the magician who unravelled the mystery.”

  Abbie put up her hand to cover the twitch where her lips doggedly tried to grin. Unknown to the other woman, the words about mystery and magic had scratched at Abbie’s funny bone, and it took biting her lip to stop from giggling out loud. Under control at last, she answered, “Yes, he’s been wonderful.”

  Recognizing Madeline’s discomfort and the reason for it, Abbie waited while the other woman played for time and inspected the room, only to stop dead when her gaze came to the dazzling red bloom on the table nearest to the bed.

  “May I?” She gestured to indicate her desire to come closer.

  “Of course.” The amazing smell had undoubtedly caught her attention.

  “Such a beautiful flower. And in the middle of winter. I love the smell of roses, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” Abbie knew chattering covered many a tense moment for others, but she had to smile. It was quite obvious she hadn’t inherited this quirk from Madeline. In moments of stress, she herself was more likely to shut down and search for answers inside.

  Trying to help, Abbie put her hand out and said, “If you’re Marcus’ mother, you must be Mrs. Chapman. I’m ever so pleased to meet you.”

  “Since I remarried after Marcus’ father passed on, my name is actually Chapman-Morris, but I’d rather you call me Madeline. The other is far too formal.” She stepped closer to the bed and took Abbie’s hand in her own, then squeezed rather than shook. “Love, I have something to tell you, someone for you to meet, but I must be sure you won’t be traumatized or become ill again.”

  Puzzled, Abbie sat straight up and tightened her hand around that of the shaky one she held. “I can assure you I’m fine now.” Let’s just get this over with. Put the poor dear out of her misery. “Who has come to see me, and what is this all about?”

  Madeline smiled into Abbie’s eyes, her expression lightening. On her way to the door, walking backward, she continued to chatter. “This couple has come from Paris, probably the last flight before the airport shut down due to the vicious weather, but once I told them about you, nothing would stop them.”

  By then she’d gotten as far as the door and opened it, stuck her head out and called, “It’s okay to come in. She’s awake.”

  Two people entered and stopped at the sight of Abbie in bed. She watched the female stranger hesitate, catch her breath, and then release a tiny sob that sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence. Both the man and the woman looked toward Madeline, as if for confirmation, and then both nodded in agreement when she signalled affirmation.

  Abbie could hardly breathe. Something strange was happening, and she wasn’t sure if she liked it or not. These people made her ache inside. Why, she didn’t know. But she’d never felt this way before.

  Her nerves began to clamour and odd things were happening in her tummy. Fear hit her about the same time as the dryness in her mouth made talking impossible. She blinked away surprising tears and then stared at her clenched hands. For the life of her, she couldn’t utter a word. To say she was traumatized was an understatement.

  Footsteps approached the bed, drawing her gaze upward. The handsome, dark-haired man moved closer, and she was transfixed by the striking blue of his eyes. She knew those eyes—the silvery black streaks highlighting the deep cerulean. The sparkle, the depth—they were the same eyes that stared out at her every time she looked into a mirror. Those eyes.

  “You’re my father.” The words popped out before she could stop them from being formed.

  “Yes, I am, Abbie.” He had a deep voice, gentle and husky, with a slight accent she couldn’t make out. He was tall and broad-shouldered; his suit, uncovered by outer garments, fit him impeccably and gave him the look of a well-to-do person, comfortable and even sophisticated.

  His arm reached back as he turned and beckoned to the small woman hovering in Madeline’s arms. She had tears pouring down her face, a handkerchief clutched in her tight grip, and her eyes glued to Abbie. “And this is your mother.”

  A thought popped into Abbie’s head from out of thin air. Oh, Marcus! How wonderful…

  Shock, unexpected but wholly natural under the circumstances, brought a cry of astonishment from Abbie’s lips. And taking this as a sign of rejection, the lady broke down completely. Sobs wracked her body as though they originated and were forced up from the deepest regions inside.

  Before she knew she would or could, Abbie flung back the covers and stumbled a few steps from the bed to take her mother into her arms. “Please don’t cry so. You’ll make yourself sick, and—and there’s only room for one in that chintzy hospital cot.”

  Her nonsense did the trick and dispelled the horrible strain instantly. Chuckling, her father joined them and led both the faltering women back to the bed. In the meantime, her mother desperately tried to get herself under control.

  “Abbie, under the covers now. There’s a good girl.” Madeline had rushed to hold the blankets up, indicating for Abbie to return. “Now that they’ve found you, I don’t think Hans and Corrie could stand losing you again.”

  Shyness attacked and had Abbie following orders. She covered up and then shrank back against her pillows. Wringing her hands, she stared first at Madeline, who smiled back and nodded, and then she gazed at the nervous woman Madeline had called “Corrie.”

  The abject need written over her face clutched at Abbie’s heart. Without thought, she reached out her hand and smiled when her mother lifted it to her lips. While the lady in distress held it against her damp cheeks, Abbie’s eyes took in every detail, devouring all of her attractions. She was tiny, like Abbie, but with silver streaks artfully appearing throughout her professionally styled dark hair. Her luminous grey eyes were large and, at this moment, pleading. She looked to be about forty years old, but that would be impossible. Still, a beautiful woman always held her age well, and her mother ranked as one of the most beautiful Abbie had ever seen.

  When she spoke, her voice broke every so often and made the words even more poignant. “We’ve been a right pair of idiots, Abbie. And we’ve wasted so many years.”

  “Please tell me. I want to know everything.”

  Madeline moved away from the side of the bed and drew everyone’s attention. “I’ll leave you three to catch up and get acquainted while I ring Marcus and see if he can give us a ride back to your hotel. If not, I can take you myself. Not to worry. We shan’t leave Bertie there alone for too long.” With a cheerful nod, she left the room and closed the door.

  “Bertie?” Abbie clung to that one word to give herself time to digest the news. The dream of every child in the orphanage was actually happening—to her. The dream of having parents arrive one day to say it had all been a mistake, the dream of going home.

  “Bertie’s our poodle. We had no one to care for him at such short notice, and thanks to Hans’ diplomatic status, we were able to pack him up and bring him along. He’s at the hotel.”

  Abbie loved animals, especially dogs. “Poor baby. He’ll be alone and afraid. You must return before the snow leaves you stranded here.”

  “Not to worry, Abbie. Right now it’s you we need to be with.” Her father’s voice left no doubt in her mind that he meant every word.

  “Sir, please sit on the bed, here. You can’t be too comfortable leaning against the wall.” Abbie moved her feet and made room for him. He smiled at her, and she felt a blush start on her cheeks and work its way straight to her hairline. No one had ever looked at her with such pride before, and she didn’t know if she could handle it.

  “My name is Hans, Abbie. Hans Strauss, but I’d prefer it if you could call me ‘Father.’ If not, then at least use my first name instead of being so formal.”

  “I’d like to call you ‘Father,’ and I will, once I get to
know you better. Will ‘Hans’ be all right for now?”

  “Splendid.” He settled himself at the end of the bed and patted a place across from him for his wife. “The female who’s eating you up with her eyes is Corrie Strauss, your mother. A few days ago, Madeline contacted us with wonderful news—our daughter was alive and lived here in Bury. You see, we thought you were dead. To make a long story short, Corrie named you Ann, after her mother. She put the note with her instructions for your name in the basket with you when she left you at the orphanage. Later, after the war, she contacted them by letter to find out what had happened to you, and was told that the baby called Ann had died from complications with chicken pox as a toddler. But what we didn’t know was that they must have already had a child called Ann and maybe thought it would be difficult to have another with the same name, and so they called you Abigail instead.”

  Corrie, interrupted to carry on with the story. “Hans was a pilot, a German pilot, and during the war he crashed close to where I lived with Madeline. We saved him from the burning plane, and then we hid him from the authorities. The moment I saw him, Abbie, I fell in love with him, and he with me. We shouldn’t have let ourselves get carried away, but it was a different time then. Life had become extremely precious, and so had love. Back then, no one knew if they’d live to see another day.”

  Maybe Abbie wouldn’t have appreciated this theory if she hadn’t spent those momentous hours with Marcus, but she certainly did now. “It’s all right. I do understand.” She patted her mother’s hand to accentuate her words. “Go on.”

  “Our love should never have happened, though, because, well… You see, I was married to another. My husband, a soldier for the British army, fought overseas and had been away for many long and lonely months. Not that that is an excuse—there is none—but it is an explanation.”