Christmas Surprises

by Patricia Rice

  That got through to him. He reached to touch the place where she stood, but of course, his fingers couldn’t feel her. He curled them fiercely into his palm and dropped his hand. “Why can’t you inhabit human bodies instead of tin angels?” he asked with irritation.

  “Most human bodies come supplied with souls,” she reminded him gently. “It would be a little difficult with two of us in there.”

  He made a grunt that might have been amusement.

  “You would no doubt be dangerous in any case. I’d best go upstairs and meet my obligations.”

  “Don’t be in any hurry. Liars have a way of being revealed.”

  With a whisper of wings, she disappeared.

  * * * *

  “She claims Lord Darcourt attacked her, my lady.” Rodney held his hands behind his back. His expression looked almost sheepish as the matronly woman on the settee gave him a cold stare. “Her gown is torn, and she is in some disarray,” he added, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  “I’ll send my maid in to her. She can repair the gown. The woman is more a fool than I anticipated. Imagine, expecting us to believe Jeffrey did any such thing! My heavens, she must be out of her mind. Perhaps we ought to return her home and recommend she be given some restorative medicines and a long rest. Obviously, she has become obsessed.” Lady Darcourt shoved her needle through her embroidery with considerable vigor.

  Helen rose to take the bellpull. “I’ll see to her, my lady. I cannot imagine why she would believe we would think such things of Jeffrey. Everyone in the household knows he does not wish to be disturbed when he goes to his study. He was in the salon with us after dinner and Miss Wittingham was not. It can only be concluded that she lay in wait for him. I cannot think of any good reason a woman would do such a thing.”

  Rodney’s head turned from one woman to the other, and he looked a little more relieved. He moved his shoulders more easily beneath his tight dinner coat. “I suppose she could have tripped on the carpeting. It is quite easy to lose one’s balance on these old floors.”

  Lady Darcourt gave a sniff of disapproval. “If I were Jeffrey, I would have shoved her out the door. But I suppose you’re quite right. He’s much too polite to have shoved her. She no doubt tripped in her hysterics. Or fell deliberately. Jeffrey’s character is without question.”

  Rodney nodded even more eagerly now. “You have hit upon it exactly, my lady. Lord Darcourt is known widely throughout society as an excessively honorable man. The whispers about Miss Wittingham have kept her on the shelf for years. You are precisely right. I shall go reassure Susan, if you do not mind. She is young and impressionable, but she is certain to come about once this is explained to her. Shall I tell the footman to notify the stable that a carriage will need to be brought round in the morning?”

  “Just so, Mr. Davenport. An excellent idea.” Lady Darcourt nodded approvingly as the young man turned to depart. He nearly collided with Jeffrey, who stepped out of his way and allowed him to pass without comment.

  The viscount’s gaze settled directly on his mother. “You do not expect me to offer for Miss Wittingham?” he asked in disbelief.

  “My heavens, I should think not!” Looking shocked, Lady Darcourt stared at her son. “I cannot believe such behavior. I would never have thought her so weak-minded. I apologize for being such an appalling judge of character, Jeffrey. I thought her a modest, retiring sort. This is all my fault, I realize. I truly did not mean for you to be assaulted in your own home. I’ve quite learned my lesson. I’ll leave you to your privacy from now on.”

  A hint of a smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he gazed affectionately down on his mother. “Not entirely, I hope, Mother. The holiday would be unbearably lonely if you and Helen and Susan chose to celebrate it elsewhere.”

  She looked up at him with relief, then seeing the smile tugging at his lips, she rose and hugged her intimidatingly tall son. Strong arms clasped her shoulders for the first time since George’s death.

  When Helen rose to politely leave this family scene, Jeffrey reached out to encompass her in the hug, pressing a brief kiss to the top of her head. “You will see to Susan? That young dandy is likely to trip over his own tongue trying to explain.”

  She looked up at him laughingly. “He is not beyond witless, you know. He’s just in love and not certain how to handle it.”

  “You could have fooled me,” he said dryly, releasing her to go to his sister’s rescue. “But you’re the one with experience in these matters. I’ll rely on your expertise.”

  Both women gave him wide-eyed stares at this admission, but he had already turned his back on them to summon a servant to bring his brandy upstairs.

  * * * *

  Mary watched this family scene with teary-eyed wistfulness. She didn’t know that she could claim responsibility for Jeffrey’s acceptance of his family. He had too much good in his heart to pretend for long that they didn’t exist. She couldn’t say that she had awakened his realization that they weren’t entirely weak-minded fools, either. Perhaps she had opened his heart just a little so he could do it on his own.

  As Susan rushed in to hug him, Mary drifted reluctantly from the room. She had behaved childishly in her assigned task and almost ruined a good man. She had to admit that she had a lot to learn about life and human behavior yet.

  She threw one last wistful look over her shoulder to the family scene in the salon. The Darcourts laughed merrily over some shared joke. They had shed the black of mourning for the holidays, and they looked like any other festive family in their silks and satins. The room had been strung with swags of evergreen and holly adorned with silver ribbons and interspersed with pine-cones and shiny berries. Another kissing ball hung near the doorway. Jeffrey’s dark curls brushed dangerously near it, and she longed for the ability to take advantage of the proximity, to brush his angular cheek with her lips and feel the rough bristle of his jaw.

  The time to make her decision was now. She didn’t even have the luxury of waiting for Christmas Eve. The opportunity was opening even as she lingered. With a sigh of regret, Mary closed her eyes on the touching scene and disappeared.

  * * * *

  Jeffrey waited for a gloating comment on her success, but none came. He looked for a shimmer of light and listened for a flutter of wings, but saw and heard nothing to suggest his angel’s presence. He’d learned to find her with just the slightest of hints, but search as he might, he couldn’t find her anywhere,

  He wandered to his study and examined the Christmas tree. Without his slightly twisted tin angel to adorn the branches, it no longer seemed as grand as he remembered. He retired to his chamber, but when he lay between the sheets regretting the emptiness of his bed, she didn’t come to laugh and reassure him. He lay there feeling hollow, wondering if he would ever feel whole again.

  He supposed she would tell him that time healed all wounds or some other such nonsense. She might even be right. It just didn’t help much right now, here in the present, when he still felt lonely and uncertain. His family wanted him to return to London and politics in the spring, but he’d at least learned that lesson. He could do as much quietly, behind the scenes, as he could accomplish by staging dramatic speeches in the halls of government. The persistent application of time and money could accomplish great things, if not sweeping reform. Some things just required time.

  He supposed the same principles applied to looking for a wife. If he applied time and determination to the search, he could no doubt find a woman somewhere who could match him in intelligence and character. He just didn’t know if he could find one with the same mischievous sense of humor and wry wit as his angel. Where would he find a woman as willing to find fault with herself as with him?

  He chuckled to himself. Only in heaven, he supposed. Perhaps he was better off looking for a more mature wife, one who didn’t pride herself on tripping fools. A man in his position couldn’t very well have a wife who threw pinecones and shoved ladies. He needed someone sedate and
respectable. And boring.

  Well, he didn’t have to start the search immediately. After the New Year began would be soon enough.

  * * * *

  Christmas Eve day dawned gray and snowy. Dark clouds scuttled across the sky and an icy wind cut through layers of clothing, but Rodney and Susan laughingly ran out to test the pond and taste snowflakes on their tongues. Jeffrey shook his head at their extreme youth as he watched them from the mullioned window in his study. He would never be that young again.

  When he saw the dark figure wrapped in a wool coat and muffler bent against the wind as he walked the drive, Jeffrey’s heart caught in his throat. The vicar. Something must be amiss with Clarissa.

  Calling for a footman and his wraps, he hurried down the hall to greet the man before he could knock on the door. One look at the vicar’s anguished face told him the worst.

  “We haven’t even lit the tree!” Jeffrey exclaimed as the footman came racing up with the required coat and hat.

  “I’ve sent for the choir. The doctor says it is just a matter of hours. I want those to be happy hours. I’ve come to see if you might join us.” The vicar stood shivering on the doorstep, his face once more gray with worry, but his eyes reflecting an inner serenity that hadn’t been there before.

  Jeffrey pulled on his greatcoat and turning to the footman, reached for his hat. “Tell everyone I’ve gone to the vicarage. If they wish to join us there, we’re having a Christmas celebration with Clarissa.”

  The footman nodded in understanding. Everyone in the village knew of Clarissa’s illness. He hurried to tell not only the family, but the rest of the household. Everyone in the area knew the vicar’s beloved daughter, and the tragedy of the vicar’s losses.

  Jeffrey hurried beside Mr. Cooper as they traveled down the increasingly snow-covered drive. He had no words to express his sorrow. He wished his angel would return to supply them. Never before had he felt so empty and useless.

  “My wife and Elizabeth died so suddenly, I did not have time to do aught but grieve at what I had left undone. At least the good Lord is giving me this chance to show Clarissa how much I love her,” the vicar said staunchly as they approached the house.

  “I think your family knows how much you love them by your actions every day,” Jeffrey replied, certain of something for a change. “Your wife and daughter died knowing how much you loved them.”

  “Maybe so. And maybe they are watching over me now and can hear me say it. But I would have Clarissa know it now, while she is still with me. She has ever been the quiet, dutiful daughter. I have never heard a word of complaint cross her lips. I can understand why God would call her while she is still young. She has naught left to learn of this world. She will be happiest on the other side, with her young man. I understand that. It is just a matter of learning to accept my own loneliness.”

  Understanding from experience, Jeffrey nodded agreement. Accepting loneliness was not an easy task. It required a certain degree of skill and patience that he had not yet acquired. The vicar was no doubt better at it than he.

  Members of the choir approached the vicarage from all directions. A hay wagon sat in the yard, apparently already having dispersed a number of young participants. Mostly they were solemn and quiet as they hurried into the house, discarding woolen mittens and long scarves and knit hats across the furniture. The housekeeper made no attempt to keep them orderly but ushered them down the hall to the back bedroom as they arrived. At the viscount’s tall presence, she nodded respectfully but continued on her way without offering to take his beaver hat.

  Jeffrey dropped his overcoat on the growing stack and followed the vicar down the dim hall. The dark clouds outside stole all the light from the windows. It. might as well be the night before Christmas in truth.

  The choir had assembled in some kind of rackety order around the far wall beyond the bed. A candle burned beside the bed, but no one had bothered to light the lamps. The woman in the bed tossed feverishly, gasping for air. She didn’t seem entirely aware of their presence. Someone had washed and tied her glossy hair into a long, thick braid. She wore a frilly bed jacket that was undoubtedly a Christmas present. It didn’t seem the sort of thing the quiet, serious Clarissa would have chosen for herself.

  The vicar handed Jeffrey one of two tinderboxes, and together they started lighting the candles. Lady Darcourt, Susan, and Helen slipped in quietly just as the candles closest to the top came to life. Small trinkets and toys had gradually gathered in the bare branches, gifts from visitors over the last days. Someone had placed a carved wooden rocking horse near the angel. Ribbons in red and gold glittered at the ends of the branches. A tin drum and a shiny gold horn swung together, making a tinkling music. A rosy-cheeked baby doll nestled on a bottom branch, and sweet-smelling candles strung with a colorful variety of ribbons decorated the places in between. Two of Susan’s prized sugarplum boxes hung gaily in positions of importance. Jeffrey suspected the empty boxes had been filled with sweets before being placed there. He gave his young sister a smile of approval as the vicar lit the last candle at the top of the tree, near the tin angel.

  As the two men stepped back out of the way, a whisper of awe circled the room. Dozens of tiny tapers illuminated the glimmering tree and all the upturned faces around it. Cheeks rosy with cold shone like miniature lanterns in the splendor of the little Christmas tree. Dark eyes sparkled with wonder and delight. It scarcely took a signal from the vicar for the children to erupt in song.

  Jeffrey felt tears streaming down his face as the first refrains of an angelic carol soared through the room. He could believe in heavenly hosts just listening to these childish voices, even had he not experienced his mysterious visitation from heaven. He could feel her here, dancing with love and delight, from that radiant angel on top of the tree. She was here. He had found her. Closing his eyes, he offered his prayer up to God while the choir sang around him.

  A quiet sound from the bed scarcely drew anyone’s attention, but the housekeeper had been watching. She made an excited noise, and the vicar instantly kneeled at his daughter’s bedside. The choir stumbled and lost their places as eyes turned to the invalid, but the vicar made an impatient gesture and they quickly found their places again.

  Jeffrey was afraid to look. He had never truly faced death. George had died in a distant country. His father had died when he was off at school. He didn’t know if he could bear to see a pain-ravished face or acknowledge that life could be here one minute and gone the next. But it wouldn’t be gone entirely. Mary had taught him that.

  Determinedly, he turned to stand beside the vicar. He had not been aware that he was the only other man in the room until now. The burden of standing beside the vicar in his grief extended to him. Resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, Jeffrey stared down at the now quiet woman in the bed. Behind him, the candle in front of the tin angel flickered and went out.

  * * * *

  Childish voices rang out in imitation of angelic choirs. The lovely harmonies filled the room, echoing around her with life and joy. She absorbed the sound into herself, finding strength in it. She loved children, she discovered. She loved the carol they sang.

  Excitement rose in her even as the pain in her chest pressed down. She could feel the pain. She could feel the smooth linen sheets beneath her fingers. She could smell evergreens!

  Terrified of opening her eyes, she searched her surroundings with her senses. She felt immeasurably weak. Her mouth was dry and her skin felt feverish. Layers of blankets pressed her down into a mattress of feathers. Her fingers tightened in the linens. She had done it. She couldn’t remember precisely what she had done, but she knew she had accomplished something miraculous. The body around her felt light and strange, but it had feeling. It could reach out and touch the people beside her.

  The people beside her. She smelled the warm scent of pipe smoke and chamomile that was her father. Her father. She smiled slightly as she worked her thoughts around that discovery. Her father, the vic
ar.

  She sensed a stronger presence, one not so familiar but at the same time, as familiar as herself. That mystery puzzled but didn’t worry her. She could feel his sadness, smell the faint aroma of his shaving lotion, and knew the feel of his strong hand in hers even though they didn’t touch. Dying did extraordinary things to the senses, it seemed.

  She lifted her fingers from the covers and reached for the man’s hand resting near her. It wasn’t the one she remembered, but it was familiar, just the same. She squeezed gently, unable to find the strength for more. Her father’s voice rang with joy as he talked of love. Restlessly, she continued to search for that other presence, the one who had brought her here with his desperate needs.

  Gathering all her resources, she forced her eyes open.

  The room seemed ablaze with light. The children’s voices rose higher in glorious noise. Her spirit rose with joy. She had found heaven, at last.

  Her gaze swerved to the looming presence behind the kneeling figure at her bedside. His face appeared carved of stone, so stiff and solemn did it seem. But a dark curl had tumbled across his forehead, and she remembered... She struggled to locate the memory that had just slipped through her mind, but it eluded her. It didn’t matter. She knew him, and she smiled.

  He looked momentarily stunned. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to smile at self-important young lords. She smiled even more at that thought. She sensed her father looking at her strangely, but her gaze could only fasten on the tall man with the curl in the middle of his forehead. She remembered a nursery rhyme about someone with a curl in the middle of their forehead. Something about when they were good, they were very, very good, and when they were bad, they were horrid.

  She wasn’t aware she had uttered the words until an expression of utter shock crossed the viscount’s face. Much to the surprise and enchantment of their audience, the young viscount fell to his knees beside her, reaching for the hand the vicar had released. He studied her face acutely, but he said nothing.