Star Carol for Celeste

by Karen Hall

  “May we go now, sir?” Noah asked. “I’ve got to go help my dad.”

  “Yes. No, wait a moment.” Micah hesitated before asking. “You’re very fond of Miss Celeste, aren’t you?”

  “Everyone likes her, sir,” Ralph declared stoutly. “She was my teacher when I first came here and it was her who helped me learn to read.”

  “She’s funny,” added Noah helpfully. “Does a spot-on imitation of the Queen, but respectful-like , if you know what I mean.”

  Recalling Celeste’s talent for mimicry lifted Micah’s mouth into a smile. “Yes,” he chuckled. “I do.” His words hit Micah with the force of a fist to his lungs, knocking the air from them. “Yes,” he managed to say. “I do.” Let’s take all in yellow out.

  “Mr. Anderson.” Celeste’s mouth puckered into the disapproving pout so often seen on the portraits of Her Majesty’s and shook a finger at him. “We are not amused by your disrespectful rendering of Misters Gilbert and Sullivan’s When I was a Lad. Stick to the lyrics as written, please and not your own—ahem!—naughty version.”

  Fool, his own voice accused, driving away his humor. You poor, stupid fool.

  Micah’s fingers threatened to curl into fists. Instead, he folded his hands and said, “Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer. Good afternoon.”

  The boys scurried away, and Micah tidied his desk. He hadn’t seen Celeste since their encounter this morning. There was no sign of her in the dining hall at noon, and as much as he preferred to eat at his desk, his absence would have been noticed and attention was the last thing he wanted. His students had not bothered to hide their curious stares at his misshapen fingers. But they were only children and not yet learned in the niceties of false civility. Of course they would stare. He took his coat from the back of his chair and pulled it on. The end of his first day.

  “Micah?”

  He turned to find Celeste in the doorway, hovering as if one word would send her scurrying away like Noah and Ralph.

  “Come in.” It was all he could think to say.

  She moved across the room to stand by his desk with the same eye pleasing grace he remembered. The freckles bridging her nose to either side of her cheeks stood out against her skin made pale by—what? Distress? Anger? Sorrow?

  How the devil did he remember that?

  “How was the rest of your day?” she asked.

  “Fairly calm. At least there were no more fights.”

  “Good.”

  “And your day?”

  “Children in the first form are always lively.” Some of the color returned to her face as she added, “The trick is staying one step ahead of them.”

  “So I’ve learned in my other teaching positions,” he agreed. “Best to have a large bag of tricks to pull out at a moment’s notice.”

  “Micah, what are you doing at Saint Alban’s?”

  “I should think that’s rather obvious, Celeste.” He bit of the words. “I’m teaching.”

  “I mean what happened to your position at Grace Cathedral in Norfolk? You had a guaranteed position there.” The unspoken question of, “and why aren’t you married?” hung between them.

  The old anger surged through him and Micah held up his hands. “Rather hard to make a living as church organist when your fingers won’t work the way they once did.”

  Her gasp only increased his rage as her gaze took in his damaged fingers. “Oh my Lord,” she whispered. “What happened?”

  “Pub fight,” he said. “Chap with too many pints in him took exception with my not agreeing his rugby team was the best one in the Norfolk League. He followed me and proceeded to take out his anger on my hands and knees. Metal-toed boots make a surprisingly effective weapon for breaking bones. He started on my fingers, and worked his way down. I suppose my telling him I was a musician was a mistake. By the time my hands healed, my position at Grace Cathedral was long gone, and my ability to play much diminished. I’m lucky I can still hold a pencil or shave myself.”

  “Micah, I am so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “And why should you?” He turned and limped to stand by the room’s one window to avoid seeing the shocked pity in her eyes. “As I recall, you left the Academy rather abruptly.”

  “There didn’t seem to be any reason to stay.”

  Hearing her gentle accusation, he pivoted to face her. “I suppose I deserve that. Well, you have your revenge on me, Celeste. Not only did I lose my livelihood, but my patron’s daughter changed her mind about me as well. The attentions of a baronet’s only son were far more pleasing than those of a church organist who can’t play any more and walks with a nasty limp.”

  He returned to his desk, well aware her gaze followed his progress. “So I am as you see me,” he announced bitterly. “Not fit for much more than teaching. No family, no future as a musician. Only this.”

  “Your parents are dead?”

  He recoiled at the sympathy in her voice. “Died from influenza while I was recovering.”

  “Didn’t you have a brother? Edward, I think his name was. ”

  The memory of his gentle older half-brother— explaining the notes on the staff as they sat side by side on the piano bench—pierced Micah’s heart . His father’s attitude to their mother’s first-born eventually forced him from the house as soon as he was old enough. Micah hadn’t seen or heard from his brother in years.

  Ignoring her question, Micah perched on the edge of the desk. Is there something I can help you with?”

  She hesitated, her eyes searching his face as if trying to determine from his expression whether to continue. “I came to ask if you could accompany Saint Alban’s new choir on the piano while I directed them. Headmaster has entered the school in the London Children’s Choir Competition and…”

  He laughed, hearing the bitterness in it. Are you mad? I’m crippled, Celeste.” He held up his hands again in evidence. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  And with that he exited the room with more speed than he would have thought his limp would allow. .

  ***

  “Let’s try that again,” Celeste urged, looking over the piano’s top at the assembled children. “Hold your music up and look at me. You all know the words to Angels We Have Heard on High, so try concentrating on hearing your parts. Singing in unison won’t even get us close to winning the contest. Stand straight and sing from your lungs and not your throat. One, two, sing.”

  She began to play and the children sang with more enthusiasm than style. But under the music she could hear Micah’s anguished voice.

  “I’m a cripple, Celeste.”

  “Metal-toed boots are a good weapon for breaking bones.”

  “He started with my fingers and worked his way down.”

  Recalling Micah’s deft touch and skill at playing Mendelssohn and Bach, sympathy tightened around Celeste’s heart. He had been the academy’s star pupil, with his teachers predicting a brilliant future, either as a church musician or as a performance artist. To have such a gift and all hopes for your future destroyed by a drunken lout was too much to consider.

  And then recalling the hungry kisses they had shared, the fevered embraces when they could steal a rare moment alone together, tears pricked Celeste’s eyes. She had loved him so much, thought he had loved her. But how could she have competed with the wealth and secure future offered by his patron and his beautiful daughter when all Celeste had to offer was herself?

  She pulled herself out of her memory as the children began the second verse and tried to focus on their singing.

  It was clear that Celeste had her work cut out for her. Some of the children could sing their parts, but the others quickly fell back into singing the tune. At least it was on pitch and there was a certain purity of tone that suggested with some work, they just might be able to render a pleasing version of the traditional carol.

  “That’s fine,” she praised at they finished the last verse. “I’m sure we’ll have it ready in time.”

  “
Are we going to sing this one, Miss?” a boy called.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Celeste told him. “Perhaps we should try Joy to the World or Away in the Manager, or…”

  “Ah, there you are,” Samuel Dobbins’ cheerful voice interrupted her as he entered the chapel. “Hard at it, I see.”

  “Yes, Headmaster.” Celeste rose from the bench and turned to face him. “These are the pupils I have chosen for our choir.”

  “Very good, very good.” Dobbins beamed and stroked his old-fashioned mutton chop whiskers.” I have come to share that I’ve learned who one of the competition’s judges will be. Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of him, not that I’d know of course. Ever hear of a fellow named Phillip Tate, Miss Stillwell?”

  An old dread forced Celeste’s pulse slamming against her wrist. “Phillip Tate?” she repeated. “From the Hartwell Music Academy in Kent?”

  “I think so,” Dobbins said absently, taking out his pocket watch and studying the time. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Celeste said as another old memory arrived without an invitation. “Yes indeed.”

  You call yourself musicians? A pack of braying mules is more like it! Handel is either rolling in his grave with laughter or about to exit it with the intent of taking his revenge on you for slaughtering his music! The image of the lean, raven-haired Phillip Tate, choral director of the Hartwell Music Academy rose like one of Scrooge’s specters before Celeste. Feared by Hartwell students— not to mention many of the staff— Phillip Tate had dominated the choral department at the Academy. His insistent and constant demand for perfection was legendary, and his scathing criticism had reduced more than one student to red-faced humiliation and tears. Few met his rigorous requirements, and only twice had Celeste received more than a “That will do, Miss Stillwell.”

  “Well, if you know him, perhaps that will be a plus for our little choir.” Dobbins snapped his watch shut and

  returned it to his pocket. “I’ll leave you to your practice, Miss Stillwell.”

  Watching his retreating back, Celeste sighed. If Phillip Tate was indeed one of the competition’s judges, it would take a miracle to impress him. Even an uninjured Micah at the keyboard wouldn’t be enough.

  She turned and found the children staring at her, eyes wide with expectation. Smiling, she sat on the bench and placed her hands on the keyboard. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

  Chapter Four

  Thursday afternoon

  ‘“Miss Stillwell? Might I have a word with you?” Without waiting for permission, Micah entered her empty classroom. He had avoided her for days, and as if by some unspoken agreement, she had not sought him out. Mercifully, the boys in his class had behaved since Monday, keeping her from entering his classroom to help him out.

  But for the last three nights, her image had haunted his sleep, calling up memories of days best left in the past. Hopefully talking to her today would exorcise her from his dreams.

  Wearing her coat and hat proved she had been on the verge of leaving for the day. Surprise at his re-appearance parted her lips, and she hugged her satchel to her chest like a protective shield.

  As if she needed protection from him.

  “I thought you were gone,” she said, her green eyes wide in watchful hesitation. Those same eyes once lit up with happiness when she saw him, and the wariness in them started the old guilt tugging at Micah’s conscience. She deserved far better than he had given her all those years ago.

  “And so I was ,” he agreed, coming to stand before her. “But good manners required me to return.”

  “Good manners?” she repeated.

  “I wasn’t very nice to you earlier this week, Celeste,” he said, dropping all pretense of formality. “I had no right to be so abrupt. I hope you’ll accept my apology and forgive me.”

  And maybe one day forgive me for letting my arrogance take me away from you.

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose I can do that. We wouldn’t want to set a bad example for the children by quarreling in front of them or to let the other staff know we. . .” Her words trailed off.

  “Share a past?” Micah prompted.

  A rosy blush flamed her face. “Something like that,” she said.

  “Well, if anyone on staff asks , we shall simply tell them we studied music together” Micah said. “That is true enough. May I take you to tea to make up for my earlier rudeness?”

  “Well…”

  “Just one cup?” Micah persisted. “There’s a shop around the corner. Please?”

  A shadow of the smile he remembered lifted the corners of her mouth. “Very well. One cup.”

  He stepped aside for her to lead them from the room. After she closed the door and locked it, they left the school and walked the short distance to the brightly lit tea shop around the corner where Micah ordered tea and scones. The smiling waitress soon returned and set it before them. Celeste served , taking only one scone for herself. After a sip of Earl Grey , he asked, “Is that all you’re going to have?”

  “I’m having high tea with some friends later.”

  Something like jealousy pricked at Micah. “Am I

  keeping you from them?”

  “No. But Duncan always puts on such a spread for us after our lessons , that if I eat now, I won’t have an appetite later and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “Lessons? Do you have another teaching job?”

  She smiled. “Not exactly. I’m helping some retired soldiers improve their reading and writing skills. They’ve rented a house together to stretch their pensions.”

  “And you go there without a chaperone?” Micah teased. “Miss Stillwell, is that proper?”

  “Have you forgotten that I often didn’t care for what was proper?” Her smile became a mischief-filled grin, and his heart turned over at the memory of how outspoken and non-traditional she could be. How could he have forgotten that and that grin?

  How could he have chosen to leave her?

  “They’re a good bit older than me, and very protective,” she said. “It’s like having a house full of uncles. I couldn’t be safer.”

  “Every young lady needs a house full of uncles,” he agreed, taking another scone. “How did your rehearsal with the children go this afternoon?”

  Her grin vanished with the speed of a conjurer’s smoke. “Well enough until Headmaster told me that Phillip Tate will be one of the competition’s judges.”

  “Our Phillip Tate? From the Hartwell Academy?” Micah whistled a long, low note, and for a moment, their pasts were joined. “That raises the stakes, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said, resignation coloring her tone. “Headmaster seems to think if we just sing a ‘carol or two’, all will be well.”

  “Headmaster obviously doesn’t know who Phillip Tate is,” Micah said dryly. “Singing before the Grand Inquisitor would be easier. Are you sure you want to subject the children to Tate? I doubt their youth will make him any more merciful.

  “But they’re already so excited, and the entry fee is paid,” she said. “We’ll just have to hope and pray that the approaching Christmas season will soften Tate’s heart.”

  “You’ll have to summon up all three of the spirits that frightened Scrooge into redemption to accomplish that,” Micah warned. “It would take that kind of miracle to soften Tate’s heart— if he has one.”

  A twinkle brightened her eyes. “I’ll see if there are any soothsayers in London for the holiday to help with the summoning. Perhaps an advertisement in the papers’ agony columns would do.”

  They shared a laugh and after draining her cup and setting it aside, she rose. “Thank you for the tea, Micah. I need to catch the ‘bus.”

  He stood. “I’ll walk you to the corner.”

  After he paid their bill, they stepped outside and he offered his arm. She hesitated a second, then wrapped her now gloved hand around it. He matched his long stride to her shorter one, and their steps fell into a comf
ortable rhythm. Above them the pewter gray sky suggested snow. More than one storefront they window they passed was decorated with evergreens , gift selections and yards and yards of ribbon. A young girl holding a battered hat sang carols to the passersby while an older boy accompanied her on a flute.

  “I’ve often thought,” Micah said, breaking the silence, “that Robert Browning got it wrong. About London, I mean.”

  She canted her head in his direction. “How so?”

  “I would have written, ‘Oh to be in London, now that Christmas’s near.’ The lights, the shops, the throngs of shopping people. There’s no place quite like it, is there?”

  “None,” she agreed. “And the music. Don’t forget the music.”

  “No,” he said softly. “One could hardly forget that.”

  They reached the corner as a ‘bus pulled up. She moved her hand and held it out to him. “Thank you for the tea, Micah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  His misshapen hand covered her far smaller one. “Until then, Celeste.”

  She smiled, boarded the ‘bus, and a few minutes later it pulled away. Micah stood watching it weave into the late afternoon traffic. Then ignoring the throbbing in his leg, he started the long walk back to his rooms.

  ****

  Celeste leaned her head against the ‘bus’s window and closed her eyes. The brief time with Micah had left her exhausted. Sadness clung to him like a well-worn coat and she felt the sting of tears beginning as her own old sorrow flooded her heart. An afternoon at Hope House was just what she needed.

  The ‘bus stopped at her usual corner and she followed the other passengers to disembark. Once on the sidewalk, she hurried down the street to the familiar house. A giant wreath hung on the door and a basket filled with pinecones and bright red sprigs of holly berries sat in a corner of the porch. She knocked the familiar tattoo before opening the door and calling, “Hello the house!”