“You’re not staying for breakfast either?” Milly asked.
“I don’t want to wear out my welcome.” Aunt Louise gave her a sheepish smile. “I suppose if Cornelius is willing to make an effort, so can I.” She kissed Milly’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, darling. I’ll see you at church on Sunday. And I promise, you do not have to keep your appointment with Frederick.”
Milly frowned. “Who?”
“Exactly.” Aunt Louise chuckled. “I’ll be back later this evening for supper.”
“I’ll make sure to tell Mr. O’Reardon.” Milly winked.
Aunt Louise huffed but didn’t say anything.
An hour after her aunt left, the men returned, cherry-cheeked and rednosed. Milly brought out a tray of hot coffee. Each man took a mug in his glovecovered hands.
“You’re right quick with the repairs,” Menough said to O’Reardon. “We’d still be there fixing the stage if it wasn’t for you.”
Milly couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought she saw O’Reardon blush. “Nay, you blokes could have done just as well. Many hands make less work, me sainted mother used to say.”
“Your sainted mother had a lot of sayings,” Milly’s father said with a laugh.
“Aye, her favorite being ‘I’ll take a switch to ye, Patrick O’Reardon.’ She never did though. Which is why she was such a saint.”
“Mr. Montgomery,” Menough said after taking a sip of his coffee. “We’ll be ready to go as soon as you are. You’ve been delayed long enough.”
Elijah glanced at Milly. He gave her a grim smile. “I’ll run upstairs and fetch my case.”
“But what about breakfast?” She thought she would at least have a little more time with him.
“Pack them a basket of food, Milly.” Her father took Elijah’s mug. “Enough to fill their bellies until they get to Cleveland.”
“Yes, Father.” She turned to Elijah, but he had already started up the stairs. Now that he felt at peace with his calling, he seemed eager to get started.
A short time later, she brought a wicker basket laden with turkey sandwiches, thick cheese slices, two flasks of mulled cider, and large squares of apple cake. Menough took the basket from her. “Much obliged, Miss Kent. I’ll give you the basket back when I pass through next week.”
“No hurry,” her father said. He clapped Menough on the shoulder. “Godspeed.”
Menough nodded, tipped his hat to O’Reardon, who was seated at his usual table near the counter, and left. Moments later Elijah came downstairs, his satchel in hand, his top hat perched on his head.
“O’Reardon, would you mind helping me out in the barn?” Father’s lips curved into a quick smile as he looked at Milly.
O’Reardon jumped out of his seat. “Wouldn’t mind a’tall.” He shook Elijah’s hand. “Good luck to ye, Montgomery. Hopefully we’ll see you back ’ere in Unionville someday.”
Elijah nodded but didn’t reply. When O’Reardon and Milly’s father disappeared, he picked up his case and headed toward Milly.
She couldn’t stop her chin from trembling. Then she noticed his cravat was crooked. “May I?” she asked, pointing at the white cloth around his neck.
“Please.”
As Milly straightened Elijah’s cravat, she searched for something to say. They had said their good-byes before. She didn’t want to go through that again, because this time she knew in her heart that when he walked out that door, he would never walk through it again.
“I wish some things could be different, Milly.”
His voice, low and soft, sent a tingling sensation through her. “Things are as they should be,” she said, releasing his cravat and taking a step back. Finally, she was able to look him in the face. “I’m just glad this is God’s call on your life and not just what your family wanted you to do.”
He nodded. “I did have my doubts about that. But now I know I have to head west. I have to discover the truth for myself.” He reached out and touched her face. “I must admit I’m not eager to set out on this journey alone.”
Sadness entered his eyes. But not the fear and doubt she’d seen there before. An impulse came over her, one she couldn’t control.
“Good-bye, Mil—”
She reached up and kissed him. With tears spilling over her cheeks, she fled upstairs.
Chapter 11
One year later
Christmas Eve again. As Milly laid out fresh pine boughs on the mantel, she thought about the past year. The Tomlinsons had become good friends, especially Billy with her father. They were also regular attendees at Sunday service. And now that little Anna was walking, they could barely keep up with her when the Tomlinsons visited the tavern, which they did almost once a week. Milly had just finished Anna’s doll last week. It lay on Milly’s bed upstairs, ready to be wrapped in brown paper and tied with one of Milly’s hair ribbons. She couldn’t wait to give it to her honorary niece tonight at supper.
“You were singing the words wrong, Patrick.”
Milly turned around as Aunt Louise and Mr. O’Reardon walked into the tavern. Both gave Milly a nod then sat down at their usual table—where they had been sitting together since New Year’s Day.
“Ye need to get yer hearin’ checked, woman.” Mr. O’Reardon’s scowl was coupled with a smirk. “I was singin’ that hymn perfectly.”
“It was perfectly dreadful.” Aunt Louise looked down at her wool shawl then gave a pointed but kind look to Mr. O’Reardon. He jumped up from the chair and removed her shawl, hanging it on the wooden coat tree near the front door.
“Thank you, Patrick.”
“Anything for you, me dear.” O’Reardon sat down, and they both looked at each other for a long moment before they started bickering about song lyrics again.
“I don’t see how O’Reardon puts up with that cantankerous woman.” Milly’s father appeared at her side.
“He enjoys the challenge.” Milly crossed her arms. “Look at them. They’re so well suited for each other.”
“Good thing, too. The more time she spends with him, the less time she has to criticize me. You know she hasn’t said a word about the amount of sage I put in the dressing this year.”
Milly chuckled. “She must be in love.”
Her father laughed, but the sound quickly faded as Milly turned around and put the Christmas candle in the middle of the mantel. “Have you heard from him, Milly?”
She shook her head. “Not since September.” She swallowed, forced a smile, and faced her father. “Which is fine. It truly is. I hadn’t expected to hear from him at all.”
When she’d first received a letter from Elijah a week after he left last Christmas, she’d been delighted to hear from him. Over the past nine months, he had written fairly frequently, regaling her with tales of the wilderness, of the Indian tribes he’d encountered and the rugged pioneers he’d met in the Dakota territories.
While his missionary opportunities sounded exciting, the letters were bittersweet. She could sense him withdrawing from her and knew his correspondence would stop eventually. Perhaps he found someone who shared his passion for his calling. The idea pained her, but she hoped he was happy.
As for her, she was content working at the tavern. But she couldn’t deny her loneliness, even more acute knowing that Elijah was so far away. Yet in the past month she had come to accept reality and had even had Sunday supper last week with a young man who had just moved to Unionville with his family over the summer. He was pleasant enough, but he wasn’t Elijah.
“I should get back to the kitchen,” her father said, interrupting her thoughts. “I could use your help, Milly.”
“I’ll be there in a moment.” She adjusted the candle one more time as her father left. She touched the hardened drips of wax as she ran her finger around the candle’s rim. More than ever she wished her mother was here to offer her advice. Her heart was so confused.
She heard the door open again but didn’t turn around, assuming her aunt and Mr. O’Reardon had
left, since the tavern had suddenly grown quiet. And unlike last Christmas, not a flake of snow disturbed the ground. The Tomlinsons weren’t expected to arrive for a few hours, so she had some time to get things prepared—
“Milly?”
Milly froze at the familiar voice. She slowly turned, willing herself to believe her ears. Sure enough, standing in the middle of the tavern dining room was Elijah Montgomery. He looked different. Older. Confident. His curly hair shorter, a black, neatly trimmed mustache on his upper lip.
Then he smiled, and she hurried toward him, stopping only a few inches away. “Elijah? What are you doing here?”
He glanced around the empty room. “Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know.” At that moment she didn’t care. “I never thought I’d see you again. Are you here for a visit?”
“No, Milly. I’m here for good.”
“But what about your ministry? I thought you enjoyed living out west.”
“I did, for a time.” He set down his satchel and removed his hat, placing it on a nearby table. “And I’m sorry I haven’t written recently. But I had a few things to sort out between me and God.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t either at first. But I realized something, Milly. I don’t have to travel great distances to minister to others. I just have to be open to the opportunities God brings my way.”
“Like Billy Tomlinson.”
He nodded. “I was pleased to hear he and his family are attending services.”
“They never miss.” She smiled.
“A wise Irishman once told me the heart has a mind of its own. Now I know he was right.” He took her hands in his. “You have my heart, Milly. You always have. I have to go where God leads. And He led me here…back to you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life.”
The front door opened. Milly peered over Elijah’s shoulder as he turned around.
“Kiss her already, lad!” O’Reardon laughed. A chubby hand appeared behind him and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. When he didn’t budge, Aunt Louise wedged herself in between him and the door.
“Mind your own business, Patrick!” Aunt Louise tugged.
“Keep yer hands off me, woman. At least in public.”
“Patrick!” Aunt Louise gasped.
O’Reardon winked at Elijah and Milly and disappeared out the door with Aunt Louise.
Elijah turned to Milly, “Are they… ?”
“They’re something. We just haven’t figured out what yet.”
He chuckled then drew her close. “I hope you don’t mind me visiting the tavern again, Miss Kent.”
“You’re always welcome here, Mr. Montgomery.”
Elijah leaned his head toward hers. “Would I be too forward in asking for a kiss?”
Milly grinned and shook her head. “Considering the last time we kissed, I didn’t even bother asking, I would say you’re being most polite.”
He bent down and kissed her tenderly. “Merry Christmas, Milly.”
She looked into his dark eyes and thanked God for the best gift she’d ever received. “Merry Christmas.”
A Silent Night
Anna C. Urquhart
Chapter 1
Edinburgh, Scotland
March 29, 1824
You’ll sign the papers today?” Lorna asked as she looked across the table at Iain.
Iain looked up from his plate of boiled eggs on toast and nodded. “I told Angus McCracken I’d come at lunch and sign. The ship leaves in four weeks for Boston.”
Lorna lifted the china teapot with lilac sprigs abloom around its base and poured a stream of steaming amber liquid into a matching sprigged teacup. She could feel Iain watching her but didn’t raise her eyes. She didn’t need to see him to know he was anxious. Anxious to have things settled. Anxious to be under way. Anxious for her, his new wife, to embrace this venture, this new life they were about to begin.
“Two lumps?” Lorna asked. She spooned a small piece of sugar from the bowl. Iain tilted his head, as if chastising her for asking a question to which she knew the answer. She grinned and clucked her tongue as she dropped a second lump into his tea.
“What are we to do with such extravagance, dear Iain?”
As she handed him the teacup, his hand brushed hers. She met his eyes—dark brown eyes with honey-gold flecks. Eyes that made the backs of her knees tingle. A smile came over his face. Lorna waited for the dimple in his right cheek to appear. It did. He couldn’t hide his enthusiasm for this new adventure.
For several minutes, only the clink of Lorna’s spoon against the rim of her teacup interrupted the silence. Iain’s smile, Lorna observed, waned as he stared into his tea.
“It’s a new start,” he said finally. She rubbed her fingers over a small scratch in the tabletop. She placed her palm flat against the solid, gold-hued surface. Iain had made this table out of sturdy oak. Dove-tailed joints. Beveled edges. Sturdy, scrolled legs. Tongue-in-groove surface perfectly aligned. At this table, Iain had promised, their children would surround them. Each Christmas they would lay a feast and sing and laugh and gorge themselves on Lorna’s Christmas pudding. The place her palm rested grew damp from her own heat, yet she did not withdraw her hand. Instead, she pressed harder, resisting the change that had already begun.
“It’s such a long time.” Her voice neared a whisper.
“It’s five years.” Iain made five years sound like five days. “Five years I’ll be indentured to the McCrackens in Boston. After that we’ll be free.”
“We’re free now.” She brought her gaze to his. She wanted—no, needed—him to understand her fear.
“You know what I mean.” Iain leaned forward, placed his hand atop Lorna’s that still pressed on the table. “I want more for us. For our family.”
Lorna may have married Iain only four months ago, but she had known him most of her life. She knew he was a man for open spaces—a man who loved to work with his hands, longed to be his own master, and dreamed of breathing and digging deeply in land that was all his own. He couldn’t do that in Edinburgh. At one time his idealism had been intoxicating. Now it prompted fear.
Lorna lifted the teacup to her lips and glanced out the window into Mrs. Ross’s garden where lilacs and bougainvillea bloomed. She listened to Iain explain—again—that, with the Erie Canal’s completion, it was as perfect an opportunity as they would ever have. Five years’ indenture in Boston. Then onto a boat—a canal boat—through the Erie Canal into Michigan Territory. To Wayne County. A town near Detroit—Spring Wells, was it? A place, Iain assured her, where they would build a home. A place where their children would run freely. A place where they would sing Gaelic Christmas carols beneath a million sparkling stars without the fog of the city to cloud the sky, nor the noise to drown the birdsong.
Lorna placed a hand against her abdomen. Never, in all her dreaming, did she think she would carry their first child into the yawning dark of the unknown. Away from the familiar. From family and friends. From safety. The weight of that decision, that responsibility, hung on her like a yoke. But she loved Iain; she trusted him. And she had made a vow.
Iain stood, swallowed the dregs of his tea, and smacked his lips. The cup clacked against the saucer as he set it down. He gave Lorna a look that brought a warm flush she could feel creeping up her neck.
“I have one condition,” she said.
Iain raised an eyebrow.
Lorna, her hand still atop the table, sighed. “This table comes with us.”
Iain chuckled. “That’s your condition?”
“You promised.” Lorna rose to her feet and looked at her husband. “You promised our family, for the next eighty years, would gather around this table. It comes with us.”
Iain laughed a loud, throaty laugh that came from down deep within him.
Lorna finally laughed, too.
“Lorna!” Iain wrapped his arms
around her waist, lifting her in the air, exultant. He set her back on her feet and kissed her fully on the mouth. Lorna brought her hands up to his chest, pressed her palms against him, feeling his heart pulse. She wanted to soak up every ounce of him—of his enthusiasm, his confidence—in this one kiss. Iain pulled back, his eyes bright, and he began to hum. He hummed the strains of a ballad, grasped her around the waist, and spun her through the steps of a highland reel. The same reel they had danced together at their first ceilidh in Collin McGregor’s barn when they were twelve, the night she knew she would one day marry Iain Findlay.
“ ‘O my Luve’s like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung in June,’ ” Iain crooned in Lorna’s ear. “ ‘O my Luve’s like the melodie that’s sweetly play’d in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in luve am I. And I will luve thee still, my dear, till a’ the seas gang dry.’ ” Even now she could hear the strains of the fiddles, the smell of hay and barley. She imagined a ceilidh in Michigan, in the barn Iain assured her they would have. Maybe they could make Michigan home, Lorna mused, as the tenor of Iain’s voice smoothed the edges of her fear.
Iain’s singing stopped. He dropped to one knee before Lorna and placed his hand—his long, strong fingers that carved and sculpted the flesh of wood—upon her stomach.
“And this wee one,” he whispered, “will be born in a new world.”
Lorna placed her hand atop Iain’s. “This wee one I fear for the most.”
Iain lifted her hand, kissed the tips of her fingers. “Trust in the Lord, my sweet,” he said. He stood, clapped his hat on his head, and whistling, strode out the door to his work. Where he would shape willing, vulnerable pieces of oak and cedar. Until midday, when he would sign a paper and shape the rest of their lives. A red-breasted robin tugged at a worm in the garden then flitted off into the morning sunbeams as Lorna sat at the table and finished her tea.
Chapter 2
Michigan Territory
November 26, 1830
A Pioneer Christmas Collection Page 13
