by Ruth Trippy
“Yes, Mother. It’s all quite beautiful. I especially like John LaFarge’s painted murals and decorations. They will be completed by the Consecration. I believe people from all over will come to visit. The preacher, of course, is very popular.”
“Isn’t that Phillips Brooks?” Celia asked. When Charles smiled his assent, she added, “I understand he’s written the words to that new Christmas carol, ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’ ”
“I think you’re right.”
Edward noted the warmth in Charles’s tone as he answered Celia. Edward watched her quiet animation. She was lovely. He would offer to walk her home.
Celia held her soupspoon in midair. “I believe he visited Bethlehem a number of years ago during the Christmas season, and later wrote the poem for the children of his church to sing during their annual program.”
Charles offered, “He exchanges pulpits with Boston ministers of other denominations. Is ecumenical in that regard.”
“I heard him speak at the Chautauqua Institute,” Mr. Darrow said. “He certainly has a way with words, a most able speaker.”
“Ah, Chautauqua, that new summer institute for vacationers who want to improve their minds by studying history, art, and literature,” Charles quipped. “I heard one of the topics was ‘The Importance of Science to the Religious Thinker.’ What do you think of that, Mr. Lyons? You keep up on that sort of thing, don’t you?”
“I try. I subscribe to Popular Science Monthly.”
“Oh, do you?” Charles laughed. “Quite the radical publication, isn’t it?”
“It is an active advocate of the scientific method.”
“Yes, but I also understand the editor denigrates manifestations of popular religious belief. Calls anyone who attends a camp meeting an ‘ignorant blockhead.’ ” Charles’s mouth crooked a grin.
Edward glanced at Miss Thatcher. She sat up straighter. Was she perturbed? He answered, “At times Youmans can be rather extremist in his views. But the intent of the magazine is to obtain the most accurate knowledge of our known universe.”
“And that includes expostulating on Darwinian theory?” Charles asked. “Some consider that a dangerous idea.”
Edward hesitated. “Possibly. Yet I believe one needs some knowledge of it.” Edward sat back in his chair, feeling the slightest bit of annoyance. It was the host or host’s son’s prerogative to steer the conversation. Still, he felt an edge had been introduced and wasn’t sure he liked it. He had come with the intention of smoothing away any controversy regarding himself. And here he was, exposed in a touchy subject.
Mrs. Harrod put down her soupspoon. “I wonder what the Reverend Brooks would say about this new thinking in science?”
“Well, Mother, he’s a learned man, so I believe he keeps abreast of it. But I’ve heard he’s decided not to enter the debate. He emphasizes the love of Christ, asking his congregation, instead, to devote themselves to improving the lives of the poor.”
“Which is as it should be,” Mrs. Harrod said. “And in view of the Christmas season, I think we can honor him later on by singing his Christmas carol. Now Celia, how did you come by that interesting tidbit about his writing the words?”
Edward was grateful his hostess directed conversation to less controversial matters.
At the end of the meal, he rose with the rest of the company. Mrs. Harrod had been right. He needed to venture more into society. The meal was delicious and the company first-rate. Except for that one conversational snag, the dinner had gone well. He felt his soul taking wing.
This was a good home. Charles and his brother were fortunate to have this with such parents. Edward’s memory flitted back to his own youth. His father had kept his nose close to the business grindstone so he’d seen little of him. And his socialite mother—well, Boston had a strict social code, and Mother was its obedient servant. How he’d learned from her. Though he now saw the need to venture out, it would be on his own terms.
As he entered the drawing room, Mrs. Adams beckoned him to her side. They had talked extensively about one of his favorite books at dinner. But it was a pleasant feeling, being thus summoned. “Please sit, Mr. Lyons, at dinner I didn’t have an opportunity to express how I felt on the subject of the new science. I agree with you . . .”
A few minutes later, the Harrods permitted two of their grandchildren to join the after-dinner socializing. Edward looked across the room. The children surrounded Miss Thatcher, dancing around her. The little girl then asked to sit on her lap and Miss Thatcher readily agreed. Miss Thatcher must have begun a story because the boy leaned against her listening. His arm crept up to encircle her.
A scene from The Christmas Carol came forcibly to mind. Scrooge, with the spirit of Christmas Past, stood watching children run laughing around the older daughter of the household, lovingly tugging at her dress and person. Edward found himself echoing Scrooge’s sentiments:
What would I not have given to be one of them! . . . As to measuring her waist in sport, as they did, bold young brood, I couldn’t have done it; I should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never come straight again. . . . I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its value.
“Mr. Lyons! I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve said this last minute,” Mrs. Adams accused him, smiling, “Is there more interesting sport across the room?”
“My apologies, Ma’am. I’ve been so little in society these last years, I’m easily distracted. You were saying—”
“Yes, as I was saying . . .”
A while later, Edward noticed a chair vacated near Miss Thatcher. He talked a little longer with Mrs. Adams, wondering in good conscience when he could excuse himself. Nearby sat Mrs. Darrow. He hadn’t yet asked her how she liked their town after residing in Boston. Maybe he could make his way to her and afterward—suddenly Mrs. Adams excused herself. “Our talk about poinsettias has been most interesting, sir. The ones you brought Mrs. Harrod were just beautiful, but I’ve monopolized you long enough.” She laughed, her eyebrow arching provocatively as she left him.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” he murmured.
On the way across the room, he stopped to make a few comments to his host, decided against engaging Mrs. Darrow in conversation, and adroitly stepped to the empty chair he had spied earlier. Here he could seem to be part of a larger group around Miss Thatcher.
As he sat, he quietly assessed the situation. Near her, he felt reticent yet strangely energized. She was a mere girl, yet he felt her to be his equal. Her handling of Dickens at the book discussion proved that. Afterward he would have liked to have stayed and talked with her, but she was busy with people buying books. He had paused, instead, to glance over the art prints Mr. Chestley had displayed around the store. The French winter scene—with its row of trees with their gnarled, pruned limbs had drawn his interest. How deeply scarred they were. Yet new life sprouted from the limbs. . . .
“I see you’re stopping at that picture,” Mr. Chestley had said. “Does something about it particularly catch your attention?”
“The colors suit my mood.”
“Our Celia was intrigued by that one. She looked at it for some time. And now I notice every once in a while, she’ll stop and look at it.”
Edward stirred in his seat and looked closely at Miss Thatcher. He’d like to know her thoughts on the print. That would be something they could talk about. Before he could approach her, Mrs. Harrod suggested charades. First, the children must be sent upstairs.
The charades were Christmas carols. After that, Mrs. Harrod said they must all gather around the piano and sing carols. “Let’s begin with ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.”
Everyone sang with good cheer. After singing several others, the party broke up.
Edward looked over at Miss Thatcher, alone for the moment. Just at that juncture, she glanced over at him and smiled. He quickly rose and approached her. “Did yo
u enjoy the evening?” he asked.
“Oh, yes! It isn’t often I do something like this. It’ll provide memories for many days to come and has begun the holidays wonderfully for me.”
“I’m glad to hear that. It has been some time since I’ve done something like this myself.”
“I know Mrs. Harrod was gratified you accepted her invitation.”
Edward acknowledged the delicate compliment with a brief nod. “We haven’t had an opportunity to talk much this evening. Would you allow me to escort you home? I noticed the weather was unusually mild on my walk here—”
“Mr. Lyons!” Charles interrupted as he stepped near. “I’m sure your offer is appreciated, but I’ve just ordered the buggy for Miss Thatcher.”
Edward hesitated before speaking. “I’m sure that would be pleasant for Miss Thatcher.”
“Well, I thought I’d take her on a little ride as well.” Charles smiled. “Something to finish off the evening.”
Irritation pricked at Edward. Then he remembered he was in the home of the Harrods and this was their son. He should have first preference.
“Certainly,” he said. “I hope Miss Thatcher enjoys the ride.”
“Thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Lyons,” Celia said.
“If you’ll excuse me, then.” He bowed formally and crossed the room. He would thank his host and hostess and then leave.
Within a few minutes, he stepped into the hall. Hatfield would bring his coat and hat. Somehow, he felt discomposed, but did not stop to analyze it. He just knew he was ready to go home.
9
Celia closed her valise, excitement welling up. She was going home! How she looked forward to seeing her parents, brothers, and little sister.
And Charles had offered to bring her to the train station. How flattering. When he took her home last night, he tucked the traveling blanket carefully around her knees. Said he wanted to make certain she was warm and comfortable. She wondered. . . . A knock sounded at the front door.
“Celia!” Mrs. Chestley poked her head into the room. “That must be young Mr. Harrod. Mr. Chestley will take your portmanteau.”
Outside Charles took the luggage from Mr. Chestley and strapped it to the buggy. Mrs. Chestley took Celia’s arm. “Now, are you going to bake my cream cake for your family?” She glanced to the back of the buggy and said a little louder, “Make it for that young man, Jack, it’ll put him on his knee in no time.”
Celia felt herself blushing. “Mrs. Chestley!” she whispered.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Chestley whispered back.
Charles came around the buggy. “I heard that bit about the cake, Mrs. Chestley. Before you go pairing off Celia with some young man, don’t you think I should have a sample? Might give me ideas, too.”
“We’ll see!” Mrs. Chestley looked archly at Charles. “Now, let me hug you, Celia.”
Mr. Chestley followed suit. “Give our regards to your family.”
After Charles handed Celia up into the buggy and she settled herself, she wondered what they would talk about, but then their conversation took off. Charles told how he loved to travel, and after he graduated and passed the bar, hoped to go on the Grand Tour. Then he’d join his father or try a firm in Boston. He caught her eye. Too bad she wasn’t delaying her trip until after the holidays, then he could accompany her as her hometown was right on the way. “Do you go to Boston much?” he asked.
“No, I’ve been only once in my life and that was a family excursion. We looked forward to it for a whole year.”
He laughed. “To hear you talk, you make it sound as if you had planned an extended trip out West, or some such.”
“Well, it was special, because usually we made our yearly trip in the opposite direction to the Chestleys. That’s how the opportunity came for me to work in the bookstore.”
After he settled her on board the train, he stood on the platform and waited until the train left the station. How nice to be attended by such a personable young man. She wondered if they’d become better acquainted, for by the time she returned, he’d be back in law school. Their conversation on the way to the station had been perfectly entertaining. Last night, too, when he had taken her home after the Christmas dinner. Then she remembered Mr. Lyons’s offer to walk her home. She wondered what they would have talked about.
If truth be known, she longed for a long, serious conversation. She was tired of talking about the weather and surface topics. She wondered if people thought her too serious—a bluestocking. How she had wanted to interject her thoughts during the serious talk at the Harrods’ Christmas dinner, but had refrained. Then afterward, she entertained the children. Delightful in its own way, but after a while she longed for some adult to approach her. She caught herself glancing at Mr. Lyons conversing with Mrs. Adams. They talked at length, the woman very animated. My, she had already sat with him at dinner, and here she was, claiming his attention again. She wondered if Mrs. Adams’s mind had that fine edge that Mr. Lyons would appreciate. Celia rather doubted it, the way she had brushed off the French print.
Celia caught herself up short. Why was she being so critical of the woman? It showed a marked degree of unkindness in herself—just because she had slighted Mrs. Smith? There might be another explanation for her behavior. Celia should give her the benefit of the doubt.
Her mind veered back to Mr. Lyons. Even though he had a reputation as a curmudgeon—and she believed it after what Mrs. Divers had said—Celia still felt some connection with him. Knew that when she went into deeper waters, he could follow. The certainty of this satisfied something fundamental within her.
She gazed out the train window. The miles were sweeping by in a succession of rolling hills. Trees dotted the frosty landscape, their black branches like fine lace against the blue gray sky. She was going home! To a father and mother with whom she could talk as seriously as she liked and not feel constrained to contain herself. Her soul rose like a fish to bait at the water’s surface.
As the train neared her hometown, she sat up straighter, straining to see familiar sights out the window. There was the church spire where she would worship Sunday with her father preaching. Her eyes moistened and a happy tightness welled up in her chest. Snow must have fallen the night before because a lovely dusting covered the fields and roads. Never had home looked so beautiful.
“Father!” Celia threw her arms around his neck. She noticed one old matron staring at her open demonstration of affection, but she didn’t care. She absolutely did not care. How wonderful to see Father again.
“Mummy!” Her mother’s face lifted in delight at Celia’s kiss.
“My eldest is back in the nest, at least for a week.” She held Celia off. “You look wonderful, my dear. We’ve all missed you.”
Celia looked around at her younger siblings who quietly waited their turn for hugs. Joe, Eric, and Euphemie. She embraced her little sister extra-long.
“We promised we’d drop by Grandma’s on the way home,” Euphemie said. Mother nodded and added, “She’s all eager to see if her oldest grandchild has changed in four months.”
“Here, you two,” Father beckoned her brothers, “carry Celia’s portmanteau between you. Celia, I’ll take your valise. Euphemie, take my hand. Celia, you can walk with your mother. She wants first claim on your time. You and I will have a good talk in my study later on.”
The others groaned. “Aw,” Eric complained, “I want to hear what she has to say, too.”
“Well then, if you all feel that way, the first night will be a family time in the study.”
Celia looked from one face to another. How bright and fresh they all appeared; she hadn’t realized what a handsome group they made. They might not be rich, but they were a grand-looking family.
The second she walked in Gram’s door, the smell of freshly baked cookies met her—with all the attendant memories. Every Sunday they had walked to Gram’s for a visit, and at the end were treated to sugar cookies.
Gram
gave her a long, hard hug. “You’ve been away too long. Come to the kitchen table, we’ll visit there.” She set down a blue plate piled high with the fondly remembered sweets.
“Do we get more than one?” Joe asked.
“Of course! We’re celebrating Celia’s homecoming.” Gram tweaked Joe’s nose.
Celia looked at her grandmother. She was as warm and sparkly as ever. One never left Gram’s without sustenance for both soul and body.
“Jack has been asking after you,” Gram said as Celia took her second cookie. “You know, there’s nothing I’d like better than to have my oldest grandchild settle down close to me.” She reached over and hugged Celia again. “It feels like you’ve been gone an age. So what about Jack? Or is there someone else?”
Celia laughed. “Let’s see, how many suitors have I corralled in four months?” She held up her fingers. “There’s Johnny, all of nine years old. And there’s . . .” she laughed, “a quite charming young man, a future lawyer I met a few days ago. However, he’ll be back in Boston before I return, and a five-day acquaintance is rather quick to decide such things, don’t you think?”
The next morning Celia and her mother stood over the kitchen stove, brewing a batch of spiced apple cider. Cider was one of the things Celia had missed at the Chestleys’. She smiled at the little painting of the Chestley’s bookstore and street she’d drawn as a child. It still graced the wall by the kitchen table. What a happy thought that was, her life with them. And now here she was in this dear kitchen with her very dear mother.
Her father stuck his head in the door. “Smells inviting.”
“Well, my love, you’re not invited yet,” Mother said. “But you will be duly so when Celia and I make doughnuts this afternoon, then we’ll have Grandma over.”
“Celia and I need to talk.”
“Certainly. After I have her to myself a little while longer.” She walked up to her husband, smiled her loveliest, and shooed him back through the door. Celia saw the mischievous gleam in her mother’s eye when she occasionally took over the reins and ruled her husband.
