“But what, dear?”
She winced and tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “I was kind of hoping everyone would forget about it.”
“But it’s such a charming story,” Winifred protested. “At the very least, I think you really ought to share it with your mother.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened in alarm. “You told her I got it back?”
“Didn’t she know?” One look at the girl’s stricken expression gave Winifred her answer. “Oh, dear. My apologies, Charlotte. I assumed you had told her.”
“Told her what?” Alex queried.
Ignoring him, Charlotte gulped air. “It’s okay. She knew about the assignment, and the contest. I read the story to her before I turned it in. She would’ve asked about it eventually, or my teacher would’ve told her.”
“What story?” Alex persisted. “What contest?”
“Your sister wrote a wonderful Christmas tale,” Winifred told him.
“Oh, that. I thought it was a poem.” Alex frowned at his sister, confused. “I know it was. I saw you working on it—I mean, I heard you working on it, and working on it, and working on it. You kept repeating lines and changing one word and changing it back.”
Winifred and Charlotte exchanged a look. “You remember that clearly?” Winifred asked him.
“Well, yeah. It was really annoying. And now that poem is stuck in my head. ‘I heard the choir on Christmas Day, I’d rather go outside and play, than hear my sister’s poem all day.’”
“That’s not how it goes,” Charlotte snapped.
“Maybe that’s how it should go.”
Charlotte took a deep breath, let it out, and regarded Alex with barely contained exasperation. “I’m not going to get mad at you, and you know why? Because we’re in church, and because you’re a witness.”
Alex’s face wrinkled up in bewilderment. “What did I witness?”
“My creative process.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s okay. Mom will.” Charlotte smiled tentatively up at Winifred. “Thanks, Sister. You can use my poem for the concert program. See you Christmas Eve.” She tugged her brother’s coat sleeve, and the two children hurried off to meet their mother at the door.
Winifred watched them go, smiling.
The church had fallen quiet as the children departed, and when Winifred glanced around, she realized that Father Ryan had left as well—to phone his brother, she hoped. A laugh caught her attention, and she turned around to discover Sophia and Lucas putting away sheet music and tidying up the choir seats. “Should I meddle?” she mused aloud. “Oh, why not. I’ve already caused so much mischief today, what’s a little more?”
It was not exactly the soundest ethical argument she had ever made, but when she considered how Sister Mary Joan might have responded if Winifred had asked her advice, she imagined her old friend and mentor smiling in amusement and raising no objections.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she murmured, crossing the transept to join the young people at the piano. “Such a delightful rehearsal,” she declared, and they broke off their work and conversation to smile back. “That first carol the children sang, the one based upon the poem by Longfellow—I’m not as familiar with it as the others but I’m quite taken with it.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” said Sophia. “Every year I like to include a song or two with a connection to the community.”
“Oh, yes, Longfellow was a local boy, wasn’t he?” Winifred gave a little start. “Oh, I shouldn’t keep you two, tonight of all nights. Don’t you have a traditional date after the last rehearsal before the Christmas Eve concert? You go out for a bite to eat and exchange Christmas gifts, isn’t that right?”
“Well—” Sophia threw Lucas a quick glance. “I guess it is a tradition, but I don’t think we would call it a—” She fell abruptly silent and glanced at Lucas again.
“We usually go out and celebrate after the concert,” Lucas quickly explained. “Not that, I mean, not that we’re going out in any sense other than, you know. Going. And out.”
“So it’s a tradition,” said Winifred carefully, making sure she got it right, “but not a date, and you aren’t going out tonight, but on the night after the concert, and you may be going outside, but you are not going out.”
Sophia and Lucas looked at each other, and then at her, and then in unison they nodded, Sophia embarrassed, Lucas pained.
Winifred shook her head and laughed. “Well, I might have gotten it word perfect but I don’t understand half of what I just said. Goodness, young couples today certainly have a way of making simple things unnecessarily complex! I blame social media.”
“We’re not a couple,” Sophia blurted. When Lucas winced, Sophia’s regret was clearly deep and immediate. “I said that about ten times more emphatically than I should have. I was only trying to clarify— I didn’t mean—”
Lucas managed a smile. “It’s really okay. I understand.”
Winifred knew it was time to make her exit. “I’ll leave you to it, then, whatever your plans for the evening are.” She turned and began to walk away, but then she paused to smile back at them. “I must say, in this festive season, there’s something so absolutely wonderful and life-affirming about seeing a young couple in love. It just warms my heart.”
With one last nod for each of them, she continued on her way.
Just as she reached the door, she heard Sophia ask Lucas, “Do you think she meant us?”
Winifred waited for the door to close behind her before she burst into merry laughter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christmas 1863
Although Charley chafed to be confined to the house and lamented his absence from the First Massachusetts Cavalry, Henry knew that his eldest son was happy to spend Christmas at home among his family. He grew stronger every day, and he whistled and sang as he went about the house, playing chess with Ernest, singing at the pianoforte with Alice, and delighting Edith and Annie by attending a series of dainty tea parties in the nursery. Once Henry even came upon Charley in the study, propped up with a lotus-leaf pillow in the largest chair, ordering supplies for his next campaign.
“One would think you were returning to the field tomorrow,” Henry had exclaimed, able to regard his son’s eagerness with good humor knowing that Dr. McGill had forbidden him to rejoin his regiment for six months. “That tomorrow is a good way off.”
“I want to be prepared,” Charley had said, grimacing slightly. He never uttered a single murmur of complaint, though he had a wound through his back a foot long. He pretended it did not hurt him, but Henry knew better. Every morning he had to help Charley wash and dress, and even those simple tasks caused him pain. Henry admired his son’s newfound sense of responsibility, but Henry considered the six-month prescribed convalescence to be a great gift, and not a day passed but he was thankful for it.
Christmas Eve at Craigie House was a simple but joyous affair, with a tree for the children on Christmas Eve and the reading of Charles Dickens’s thrilling A Christmas Carol by the fireside in the evening. The next morning there were gifts to open and carols to sing, and at midday the family enjoyed a delicious feast, with a menu that boasted many of Charley’s favorite dishes.
In the late afternoon, after bidding farewell to a few last callers and seeing the children settled down to new books and toys, Henry decided to go for a stroll. He had brought home a bothersome cold from Washington, and he hoped a turn in the brisk, frosty air would clear his head.
As Henry passed through the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk, a sudden gust of wind jostled his hat. He pulled it on more firmly, tightened his scarf, and set out with his back to the wind. In the distance he heard a church bell ringing out a poignant carol, like a voice calling out a joyful Christmas greeting to listeners far and near, a wish for peace on Earth and goodwill to a
ll.
Henry smiled, remembering the great, sonorous pealing of bells that had heralded the dawn of Christmas that morning. Every belfry had proclaimed the good news of the birth of the Christ Child, in Boston and Cambridge and throughout Christendom, one unbroken song of peace and love as the sun rose and darkness gave way to light.
Then a shadow fell over his thoughts. Had the young men on the battlefield heard the distant bells welcoming Christmas morning, or had the sublime carol been drowned out by the thundering of cannon? How many sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands in camps, on battlefields, or in hospitals had perished in the time that the bells had tolled the promise of peace and goodwill? The nation had been rent asunder, and many a family with it. It seemed impossible that there could be a single household, North or South, that did not grieve on that Christmas Day, missing a beloved soldier shivering in a camp or hospital or prison hundreds of miles from home, mourning one who had fallen to artillery or illness, suffering all the deprivations and dangers of war, appealing to the Lord for deliverance that never came.
Did those forlorn households hear the joyful ringing of Christmas bells or the sorrowful tolling that marked a funeral? Did they hear merry pealing, or only an echo of the bleak misery of war?
Henry’s throat constricted. It seemed absurd to celebrate Christmas in such dark days. Songs of peace on Earth and goodwill to men mocked the last cry of a soldier cut down by a bullet, the unfathomable grief of an enslaved mother whose child had been snatched from her arms and sold away from her forever, the endless mourning of countless wives, children, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts whose hearts had died with the men they loved, uncounted casualties of war. There was no peace on Earth, only war, war and death and abandonment and mourning. Where was God’s peace? Where, for that matter, was God? When countless voices cried out His name in the hour of death, in the endless years of mourning, why did He do nothing?
“God is not dead,” a gentle voice spoke behind him, “nor doth He sleep.”
“Fanny—” Henry whirled about, but no one stood behind him. A horse pulled a sleigh a block away down Brattle Street, light spilled through the windows of dozens of houses, merry laughter and music momentarily broke the stillness as a front door opened to welcome guests and closed again—but Henry stood on the sidewalk alone.
A steady wind stirred his whiskers and scarf; a few lacy flakes of snow fell upon his eyelashes. He blinked them away, his breath trapped in his throat, aching and raw. He had heard Fanny’s voice so clearly, so unmistakably, so warm and compassionate and familiar and close that he should have felt her breath on his cheek.
“Fanny,” he murmured, tears filling his eyes.
He was alone, and yet he was not.
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep,” Henry repeated, committing the phrase to memory. Quickly he strode down Brattle Street toward home. He could not pretend to comprehend God’s plan, but he had faith that there was one, and in the fullness of time, all would be revealed. Evil would fail and good would triumph. Surely someday there would indeed be peace on Earth and goodwill to all—Union and Confederate, slave and free, man and woman, believer and skeptic.
He would write about it, and perhaps, in his way, he could help bring about that better, peaceful, harmonious world the bells proclaimed when they filled the skies with their joyous carols on Christmas Day.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chorus
Lucas watched Sister Winifred bustle cheerfully away, reluctant to face Sophia, to ascertain how horrified, amused, or repulsed she was by the elderly nun’s unwittingly devastating remarks.
“Do you think she meant us?” Sophia asked.
“I think she did,” Lucas replied cautiously.
Sophia uttered a small, helpless laugh. “Well, that was embarrassing, wasn’t it?”
Stung, Lucas managed to keep his voice light. “How so?”
“To be called out like that. For her to assume we’re a couple—not only that, but a couple in love.”
Lucas shrugged, put away the last of his sheet music, and zipped his bag shut. “Is it really such a bizarre assumption? We’re friends, we spend a lot of time together—”
“I didn’t say it was bizarre—”
“Merely insulting, then.”
“Lucas—” Sophia studied him, confused and hurt. “Why are you acting like this?”
“No reason.” Lucas pulled on his coat and slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Never mind. See you at the concert.”
“Lucas, don’t.” Sophia caught him by the sleeve as he passed her on the way to the door. “Let’s talk about this. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I was insulted. I’m not. I was just surprised. It was—” She paused, thinking. “It was an unexpected comment from an unexpected source.”
“Fair point,” Lucas admitted. “I expect unexpected comments from Sister Winifred, but maybe not the matchmaking kind.”
Sophia winced from embarrassment, but even then she was beautiful. “Do you think that’s what she was doing?”
Lucas sighed. “Not exactly, since she thinks the match has already been made.”
“Right.” Sophia nodded, and her features relaxed into a tentative version of her usual smile. “Are we still on for dessert and coffee after the Christmas Eve concert?”
“I’m up for it if you are. Crema Café?”
“Don’t they close at nine?”
“Right.” He tried to come up with another option, but suddenly he felt so overwhelmingly frustrated and weary that nothing else came to mind. “We’ll think of something.”
“Maybe Turkish coffee and baklava at Café Algiers?”
Lucas thrust his hands into his pockets and managed a smile. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
“Lucas,” said Sophia, pensive again, “you’re not angry with me, are you? I’m sorry if I acted weird about what Sister Winifred said, but it was just so—”
“Unexpected. Yes, I know. You’ve said.”
“Wasn’t it unexpected for you?” she countered. “You’ve never been interested—”
“No, Sophia. You’ve never been interested. I’ve always been interested. Even when you were with someone else, when I was with someone else—” He took a deep breath and spoke as clearly as he could, because he had said too much already not to make absolutely sure she understood him. “I will always be interested, Sophia.”
Sophia stared. “Lucas, I—”
“You don’t have to say anything. Actually, I think it would be better if you didn’t.” He forced a smile, but it felt like a grimace. “I’m going to leave now, before I do any more damage.”
She nodded, speechless.
“I’ll see you Christmas Eve.” Lucas turned and strode from the church, silently berating himself. It was impossible to be angry with Sister Winifred—she was kind and sweet and hadn’t meant any harm—and as he thought about it as he trudged home through the snow, she had done him a favor. His secret was suffocating him, and if the truth ruined their friendship, he would have to live with that. He would rather endure rejection now than suffer in silent hope waiting for—what? For Sophia to read his mind and discover how he felt, for her to suddenly fall in love with him? As Father Ryan had said, Lucas had never given Sophia any reason to think of him as more than a friend. It was far more likely that she would have remained oblivious, and eventually, when she got over her broken engagement, she would start dating someone else, someone brave enough to tell her that he loved her.
Thanks to Sister Winifred, Sophia knew Lucas was interested—the understatement of the century. He couldn’t leave it at that. He would tell her the whole truth and hope for the best.
• • •
“Thank you for taking my call, Richard,” said Camille into her cell phone. “Please give my love to Julia and the boys. Merry Christmas.”
“Sounds like that went well,” Robert remarked from the driver’s seat as she ended the call.
“Absolutely. He’s going to make locating Lieutenant Moran a top military priority, and no one will want to disappoint him.” Camille settled back into her seat, smiling. “Richard has so much on his plate that I hate to impose, but what’s the point of having the personal cell phone number of the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff if you don’t call him every once in a while?”
“I’d say it was for a good cause.”
“The very best of causes—locating a lost soldier, reuniting a husband and father with his family.” That was the outcome Camille hoped for, although she knew there were other, crueler possibilities. “The chairman promised that the search will be thorough and it’ll continue until Lieutenant Moran is found. He says it may just be an unfortunate paperwork error, and that at this very moment the lieutenant might be recuperating in a hospital in Kabul or Germany with no idea that he’s officially missing.”
Robert nodded, but Camille had studied the back of his head and the set of his shoulders for too many years not to know when something troubled him. Sure enough, after they drove a block or two in silence, he said, “Mrs. Barrett, I hope the general’s right, but if Lieutenant Moran’s been at an army hospital all this time, wouldn’t he have gotten in touch with his family by now?”
“If he were conscious and able,” Camille acknowledged. “If he knows who he is. Remember he was involved in a deadly attack. He might have been seriously injured.”
“I’ll keep him in my prayers, ma’am.”
“As will I.” Camille tapped her cell phone against her palm, thinking. Richard wasn’t her only friend with connections in the region. Three of her former colleagues from her reporting days had gone on to become foreign correspondents, with networks of contacts and informants not only in the military but in the villages and marketplaces. Civilians often quietly confided to the press when they would not speak to any military authority. Surely someone had witnessed the attack and knew what had become of the lone American soldier left behind. Someone knew and someone would talk.
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